Jack In The Green
by charleygirl
Summary: Late April, 1897. At the invitation of Watson's cousin, Holmes and Watson travel to the Oxfordshire village of Hope Barton. But does Molly Foster have an ulterior motive in asking them there? COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This fic is set after _The Hand of Seth_, and between the Granada versions of _The Devil's Foot_ and _Silver Blaze_. For those who may have been baffled by the crossover element of _Seth_, this is a traditional story which features no outside influences. Holmes and Watson are, once again, based on Brett and Hardwicke.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson et all are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do therefore not belong to me in any way, shape or form. All other characters are my own. :)**

* * *

**JACK IN THE GREEN**

**CHAPTER ONE**

_Jack In The Green, Jack In The Green,_

_And we'll all dance each Springtime,_

_With Jack in the Green_

_- Martin Graebe, performed by Magpie Lane_

**April 1897**

"A bill…another bill…a request from a ten year old boy for help finding his missing rabbit…a telegram from Mycroft…has nothing of any interest occurred over the last six weeks?"

"Evidently the criminal classes ceased their activity while we were away," I replied a little breathlessly, dropping the valises I had carried up our seventeen stairs onto the hearthrug. Sherlock Holmes had not waited for me - once the cabbie had been paid off he hurried up to the sitting room and was causing a storm of correspondence from the neat pile Mrs Hudson mad made on his desk.

Envelopes fluttered onto the carpet. "London has no imagination. Not one prospective client of any worth."

"That could be due to my instructing Mrs Hudson to let it be known that you were out of town," I admitted.

He looked up and fixed me with a glare. "Really, Watson! How am I to keep my little practise afloat if you discourage people from consulting me?"

I picked up my own bags to take them to my room. Holmes did not seem inclined to do the same, and so I left his luggage where it was. It would probably be there for days, causing a hazard for the unwary. "We have had this conversation before, Holmes: no work until I say so. You agreed, remember?"

"I seem to recall that I had little choice in the matter," he grumbled, and returned his attention to the post.

It did not take me long to unpack my things. By the time I returned to the sitting room, Holmes had given in to the exhaustion I knew he must be feeling after the long train journey from Cornwall. His long form was stretched upon the sofa, surrounded by discarded envelopes. It had taken him barely ten minutes to reduce our unnaturally tidy quarters to their usual state of disarray. He was in truth much improved by our stay in the West Country, and I was delighted to see him taking an interest in events once more. Naturally he still tired easily – it would take some more time for his abused body to learn how to entirely do without its previous dependency upon the cocaine he had used for almost as long as I had known him – but he was almost back to his old acerbic self.

"There was a letter for you amongst the post," he said after a few minutes of companionable silence in which I settled down with a newspaper. His thin arm shot out towards me, an envelope held between two fingers.

"A letter? Not a bill?" I asked in surprise.

"Not unless your tailor has begun dictating his invoices to a woman," he replied with a smirk. He closed his eyes, feigning disinterest, as I read the missive. When I had finished, he asked casually, "Something important?"

"I have been invited up to Oxfordshire for a few days," I said, rereading the few lines to check that I did not have the wording wrong. "My cousin Molly has asked me to stay for the weekend, and has been kind enough to include yourself in her invitation."

"Oxfordshire. Yes, I did observe the postmark. Banbury, was it not?"

"Indeed. The village of Hope Barton. Charming spot, from the little I recall of my previous visit."

"Wait a moment," Holmes objected. "I was under the impression that you had no relatives living. You have never mentioned a cousin before."

"Just as you did not mention that you had a brother for the first few years of our acquaintance?" I countered. When he gave me a withering look, I relented. "Molly is a second cousin on my mother's side. I have not seen her in a long time."

"You intend to accept the invitation, then?"

"Well, I have hopes that in Oxfordshire we will not be troubled by African poisons and vengeful lion hunters. Do you not agree?"

"Watson, we have only just returned from a holiday. Why should you wish to take another so soon?" Holmes asked with that inability to understand the normal human need for leisure and enjoyment that is uniquely his.

"Because a relative of whom I am fond has invited me. And because you are not yet well enough to return to the rigors of work," I told him.

He glared at me, and lay back, turning his eyes to the ceiling. "You have become an incredible bully of late, Watson."

I had to laugh at that. "As if you would allow me to be!"

"You have taken entirely too much advantage over the past two months. I will not allow it to continue."

"I do apologise for my overbearing efforts to look after your health when you had absolutely no interest in it," I retorted. Now I was certain that he was back to his old self. Fortunately I was spared any further comment on the subject by a light tap on the door followed by the appearance of Mrs Hudson. She had been out when we returned and had only just received the news from the maid of all work downstairs.

"Welcome home, Doctor, Mr Holmes. It is good to see you back," said the good lady. She ran a knowing eye over my friend, and added, "You are looking better, Mr Holmes."

"Watson would have it that such an improvement is due entirely to his doctoring, though I reserve the right to disagree," Holmes replied. "No clients, Mrs Hudson? I had expected them to be beating down the door."

"Good heavens, no, sir. I would not have known what to do with them if they had been."

"I doubt that word will have gone round in the last half hour to announce your return, Holmes," I said.

He gave a derisive snort, evidently disgusted at the thought that London had gone on quite well with its daily life in his absence.

"Did you have a pleasant holiday, Doctor?" Mrs Hudson asked, well used by now to the moods of her principal lodger.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson. It would have been more relaxing without the Tregennis murder in the middle of it, but you know how Mr Holmes loves a challenge."

"Oh, dear me, were you involved with all that, Mr Holmes? I read of it in the papers – 'The Cornish Horror' they called it. A dreadful business."

"It enlivened a rather dull few weeks," Holmes said contrarily, deciding to forget the interest he had found in researching the (to my mind exceedingly dull) origins of the Cornish language, or the evenings spent poking around archaeological sites with the garrulous Reverend Roundhay.

"Well, only you would say that, Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson responded. "Did either of you eat on the journey?"

"A little," I said. "I am famished, though. Would something be out of the question, Mrs Hudson?"

She smiled. "I'll see what I can find. Anything for you, Mr Holmes?"

I could see Holmes forming the word 'no' on his lips, and fixed him with a disapproving stare. With a gusty sigh and a roll of his eyes, he said, "Whatever you are bringing for Watson will be quite acceptable, thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"Very good, sir." Our landlady departed, closing the door quietly behind her.

"You will be the death of me, Watson," Holmes declared when she had gone. "Sea air, exercise and food! My body will not stand it."

"It seems to me that your body is positively relishing it after the infernal abstinence you habitually insist upon," I said. "You ascended the stairs far quicker than I when we returned."

"An irrelevant observation. You know perfectly well that your old wound is troubling you again."

I decided to withdraw from the fray, knowing I would never win the argument. In one of these moods he could be quite impossible.

Presently Mrs Hudson returned with a very welcome repast of some game pie, sliced ham, new bread and cheese. I persuaded Holmes to join me at the table and began to gratefully tuck in, not realising until now how hungry I actually was. He watched me in some amusement, picking at the food on his plate and showing more interest in the letter from Molly, which I had relinquished to him.

"If you wish for information you have only to ask," I said as he examined the envelope. "There is no need to deduce."

"There is every need," he retorted, reaching behind him for his magnifying glass. "I have to reassure myself that my faculties have not deteriorated over the past few weeks."

I knew exactly to what he was referring. He needed to make sure that his abilities had not been irreparably damaged by his abuse of the cocaine. He had made mistakes, even as recently as the business with the Devil's Foot, and wanted to prove to himself that those actions had been due to the evil influence of the drug. I wished to believe that it had been so just as much as he – the thought that his remarkable talents might be gone forever was one I could not bear to entertain. Despite the incident with the lamp and the poison a few weeks ago that could have cost us both our lives, the Cornish case had proved to a certain extent that the effect would not be permanent, but only time would tell for sure.

"A lady in early middle age, respectable, right-handed…fond of lavender water," Holmes remarked, sniffing the envelope. He held the letter up to the light, inspecting the watermark in the paper. "Good quality stationery. An educated lady, though not a bluestocking, I think – her frivolous side is indicated by the flourishes she adds to her letters. She needs to replace her pen – it has dripped three times and she had not bothered to start afresh. That leads me to suppose that she dashed the letter off in a hurry, and not on a blotter – there are specks of vegetation which cling to the reverse of the paper. She had been arranging flowers shortly before the letter was written."

"Your powers of observation continue to amaze me, Holmes," I said, knowing that while I no longer needed to voice the fact his confidence would benefit from my doing so. Molly was indeed in her early forties, respectable and had a penchant for lavender water that had obviously not waned in twenty years. That she had had an excellent education from her father, a schoolmaster in Gloucester, and there was a girlish side to her nature I could also have told him, but the more obscure details I will admit that I had failed to mark.

Holmes gave me one of those swift smiles of his. "That is very gratifying, my dear fellow, but such things are mere trifles."

"You always say that there is nothing so important as the observation of trifles," I reminded him.

"Indeed. We have a question, however: why should your cousin Mrs Foster have written a note to invite you to stay in so cavalier a fashion? One would imagine she had been planning the invitation for some time beforehand."

I took back the letter and examined it afresh. "Molly always was impulsive."

"And then we have the final line: '_Please entreat Mr Sherlock Holmes to accompany you_'. Not invite or request, but 'entreat'. The lady must be very keen to meet me."

"Now that you bring it to my attention, it does seem odd," I admitted.

"Your cousin has no doubt been aware of our acquaintance for some years and has not issued the invitation until now." Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

I met his gaze, and saw the spark of excitement in his eyes. His previous lethargy had dissipated in an instant. "You sense a mystery?"

"Do you not?" he asked, head cocked to one side like an expectant terrier. When I shook my head, he clapped a hand on my shoulder with an exclamation of delight. "Wire your cousin and tell her that we would be pleased to accept her invitation. My lungs will just have to cope with breathing more country air."

Secretly overjoyed that he had agreed to the trip, I glanced at the date on my paper. "We will be in time for the May Day celebrations."

"I am sure they need not inconvenience us overmuch," came the reply as he leapt up from the table and began to ferret amongst his files for local information on Hope Barton. Books and journals went flying in all directions; a Bradshaw came sailing past my left ear to crash into the doorframe at the exact same moment that Mrs Hudson entered to clear the table.

Typically the good woman took no notice of the whirlwind in the corner of the room, and busied herself with her tray, removing the plates. "Mr Holmes has a case already, I see," she observed.

"Not quite," I said, only to be interrupted by my friend announcing that we would be leaving for Oxfordshire the day after tomorrow.

"That will leave us time to call upon Mycroft and discover the reason for his telegram," he told me, filling his pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper.

"I haven't seen a Maying in years," I remarked a little later when we were comfortably ensconced on either side of the fireplace. "A maypole, Morris dancers, the May Queen…Holmes?" He did not appear to be listening to me, his head buried in his newspaper.

For the rest of the evening he said very little. Once he sent Mrs Hudson to the telegraph office with an urgent message, but for the remainder of the time he sat curled in his armchair, lost in thought.

It was not until the following morning that we learned of the disappearance of the man Ibrahim Namin from police custody and the collapse of the case against him.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Many thanks for all the reviews! :)**

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

**JACK IN THE GREEN**

**CHAPTER TWO**

_As I was a-going to Banbury_

_Ri-fol-lattity-oh_

_As I was a-going to Banbury, I saw a fine codling apple tree_

_With a ri-fol-lattity-oh_

_- Oxfordshire Nonsense Song, performed by Magpie Lane_

Our meeting with Mycroft did not go well.

Holmes, furious that one of the criminals he had worked so hard to apprehend had somehow escaped with no explanation from the police as to how, had argued long and hard with his brother over the matter. It was quite clear that Mycroft knew far more about the situation than he was prepared to admit, but he stood firm and refused to answer Holmes's questions. In the end he said ominously,

"If you do not let this drop, Sherlock, you may find yourself in an awkward situation, Doctor Watson, too. Put the whole thing down to experience and forget about it, that is what I advise."

"And if I do not?" Holmes countered.

"Then I would not be surprised to hear that an official presence has called at Baker Street to put it to you more forcibly. Be sensible for once in your life and give in gracefully. You cannot win every time."

I will confess to not liking the implication of those words one little bit, so it was with some relief that I boarded the afternoon train to Banbury at Marylebone Station with a sulky Sherlock Holmes in tow. It seemed a very good idea to be away from London and the most unsatisfactory results of the case that had precipitated his breakdown.

During the journey he said very little, beyond repeating his long-held assertion that the country was infinitely more dangerous than the town. I still could not agree with him upon that point. In my experience, crime was just as likely to be found in both places, and neither had a greater share of the danger which always seemed to accompany it.

It was early evening by the time we pulled into Banbury station, and we still had to take the branch line to Hope Barton. I was feeling rather weary myself, and when I glanced at Holmes he was leaning heavily upon his walking stick, his bag at his feet.

"Shall we put up in a hotel here for the night and go on in the morning?" I asked, wondering whether two long train journeys in the space of a few days might have been too much for him.

He turned to look at me and smiled for the first time since we had spoken to Mycroft. "By no means. Your cousin will be waiting for us, and I am anxious to meet this interesting lady."

* * *

I was grateful that during our sojourn in Cornwall the weather had improved, the unseasonable damp drifting away to be replaced by the gentle warmth of spring. It was on a balmy evening that our train pulled into the tiny halt of Hope Barton, the sun caressing the red brick of the railway buildings and the scattering of stone houses beyond.

Waiting for us in a dog cart was a man of about my own age with bristling salt and pepper whiskers and a cheerful gleam in his eye. He jumped down upon spotting us and waved his hat in the air.

"Watson!" he called. "Good God, I'd never have known you!"

"It has been twenty years," I said, shaking the fellow's hand warmly. "You haven't changed, Sam. It's good to see you."

"Has it really been that long? Dear Lord! And this must be Mr Sherlock Holmes," he said, turning to my friend, who for once stood politely waiting to be introduced. "Samuel Foster - Watson's cousin Molly is my wife. It's an honour to meet you, Mr Holmes."

"You are the squire's steward," Holmes remarked in reply.

Samuel blinked for a moment, and then smiled broadly. "I'm pleased to see that John hasn't exaggerated your talents. I am indeed, though I'm at a loss as to how you know, unless - " He glanced at me, but I shook my head.

"Molly's letter did not mention your promotion," I assured him.

"You are quite obviously a man of business from the ink stains upon your fingers and the shine upon your right shirt cuff," said Holmes. "My first supposition had I met you in town would have been that you were a clerk or an accountant, but in a community this small there would be little call for either. You wear tweeds with a familiar air which suggests you rarely have need for more formal attire. The only occupation in such a village to combine an outdoor life with that of a man of figures is a steward."

"Well, I'll be damned," said Samuel, quite obviously impressed. "I take my hat off to you, Mr Holmes; you're one of a kind."

Holmes accepted the praise with one of his swift smiles.

"How is Molly?" I asked as Samuel loaded our bags into the cart and we all climbed aboard. "I confess to having lost touch somewhat over the last few years."

"She's well. Very well. You know her – little ever gets her down. As long as she has her books she's quite happy."

"I was a little surprised by the invitation. Not that it was not welcome," I added hastily.

Samuel laughed. "I was surprised too, if I'm completely honest. We'd settled down as usual, Molly organising the May festivities for the children as she does every year, and me occupied up at the hall most days, when she suddenly informed me that she'd asked you to stay! I'm delighted to see you again after all this time, but it came as something of a bolt from the blue, I can tell you."

"Is your wife in the habit of acting upon impulse like this?" Holmes asked.

"In her younger days, frequently. You must remember the time she decided to take in those gypsy children, John – I think it was just before you went off to Afghanistan."

I nodded, recalling that I had stayed with Samuel and Molly for a few days before leaving for Southampton. "She has changed, then?"

"Mellowed, I should say. She doesn't devise those hair-brained schemes any longer. Saves them for her work. My wife, Mr Holmes, is a professional writer," said Samuel proudly. "Best impulse of hers, that one, sending her manuscript round the London publishers. She reasoned that it worked for other authors, so why not for her?"

"That's wonderful!" I exclaimed. "I had no idea. What does she write?"

"Novels for women. You know the sort of thing: star-crossed lovers and a happy ending."

Holmes glanced at me with a smirk. "It would seem that the romantic impulse runs in your family, Watson."

"She's followed your stories avidly," Samuel continued, "Has _The Strand_ ordered specially."

"I'm flattered. I wish I had known of her writing before, then I could have returned the compliment," I said honestly.

"I'm sure she'll tell you all about it. Marvellous imagination has my Molly," Samuel told Holmes.

"I looked forward to meeting her. She does indeed sound like a remarkable woman," my friend replied.

"Now's your chance," I said as the cart turned through the gates of the house I recalled as Melville Hall. An Elizabethan pile set well back in rolling parkland, its estate buildings were clustered some distance from the main house, close to the village. The steward's dwelling was on the edge of the estate, not far from the gates and the lodge, a modest house of local stone, with a pretty little garden to the front and a working plot and small stable for one horse behind. It had changed little since I had seen it last, not long after Molly and Samuel's wedding, when they were living outside in the village.

Standing at the gate of the house was a woman I would have known anywhere. The passing of the years might have added lines to her face and touched her corn-coloured hair with silver, but the rosy cheeks and brilliant blue eyes were just the same as they had always been. She stood upon the bars of the gate like a child, her paisley shawl flapping un the light breeze, a huge smile creasing her features.

"John!" she called, waving as we drew up before the house. I jumped down from the dog cart as fast as my leg would allow, and she threw open the gate to fling her arms around me. "Oh, it has been too long!"

"Far too long. I am a terrible correspondent."

"You have been busy." She drew back to look at me. "That moustache makes you look very distinguished, I must say. Thank you for coming. I hope that I have not dragged you away from anything of importance."

"Nothing at all," I assured her. "We have in fact just been in the West Country. A much-needed holiday for us both."

Molly looked over my shoulder, and her eyes widened. I turned and saw that Holmes had climbed down from the cart and come up behind me, and now stood leaning upon his stick, idly examining the rambling roses which grew over the garden wall.

"Molly, allow me to introduce you to my good friend Mr Sherlock Holmes," I said, disentangling myself from her embrace. "Holmes, this is my cousin, Mrs Molly Foster."

As he was wont to be when the fancy took him, Holmes was charm itself. He bent quite gallantly over Molly's hand, saying, "I am delighted, Mrs Foster. Thank you for including me in your invitation."

"I am so pleased you accepted, Mr Holmes. Won't you both come into the house? You must be tired after the journey." Molly recovered from her brief surprise at my friend's - no doubt for one who was familiar with him from my writings somewhat unexpected - behaviour and led the way up the garden path to the front door. There were wooden frames propped up in the hall which reminded me of trellis – when I commented as much, Molly laughed. "Oh, they are for the Maying on Monday. The children will deck them with flowers."

"You are a teacher," aid Holmes.

"_Was_ a teacher. I devote my time to my writings now. The income is a little greater, though there is more effort in the work."

"Yes, I believe that is often the case." Holmes looked around him as we hung up our hats, his keen grey eyes taking in every detail of the hall, the parlour and the view from the window. Only once we were seated and Molly plied us with tea and cake did he say, "Of course – you are Mary Quinn!"

Molly looked surprised, but then she smiled. "You are quite correct, Mr Holmes, Mary Quinn is my pseudonym. However did you guess?"

"Mrs Foster, I never guess. You described this house quite precisely in _The Vale of Tears_, did you not?"

"I didn't know you had a taste for romantic fiction, Holmes," I said, smirking at him over the rim of my teacup.

"It pays to be informed in my business, Watson," he replied, shooting me a glare.

"You are right, Mr Holmes. I draw from my surroundings and my experiences," said Molly. She put down her cup and looked seriously at us both. "I am glad that John's tales of your powers are true, as I did have an ulterior motive in inviting you here."

A satisfied smile settled upon Holmes's face. I sighed inwardly. "I had surmised as much. What has happened?"

"Nothing quite yet," Molly said, "but I am worried that there will be a murder here in the next few days."

**TBC**

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_I will be away for most of this week, so the next update will be on Saturday. Hope you all can wait that long! :)_

_And there is of course a reason for Holmes's sudden interest in women's literature..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you once again for the lovely reviews. :) **

**Here's the next chapter, as promised.**

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

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**JACK IN THE GREEN**

**CHAPTER THREE**

_Now winter is over I'm happy to say_

_And we're all met again in our ribbons so gay_

_And we're all met again on the first day of spring_

_To go about dancing with Jack In The Green_

_- Martin Graebe, performed by Magpie Lane_

Holmes's expression became puzzled. "You are sure that there will be a murder?"

Molly looked a little uncomfortable. "Not completely sure, no. But I fear _something_ will happen."

"Please, Mrs Foster, I am a detective, not a clairvoyant. I need facts and proofs, not a crystal ball. Why do you suspect this death?"

I exchanged a glance with my cousin. "You can tell us exactly what is on your mind, Molly," I said, wishing that Holmes would be a little less blunt for once. Sometimes he could have all the subtlety of a traction engine.

"Well," she said after taking a deep breath, "it's like this, Mr Holmes. Back when I first married Samuel, I worked as governess to Miss Charlotte, the squire's adopted daughter. She was an engaging little thing - I became very fond of her, and she of me in return. When she was fourteen she was sent abroad to complete her education at a school in Switzerland, and then spent some time with relatives in France. Last year she finally came home, and has been living up at the hall with her father."

Holmes held up a finger. "Her name, her father's name and her age now, if you please."

"Charlotte Henrietta Melville. Her father's name is Sir George Melville. She's the daughter of one of his cousins, orphaned when she was barely two years old. Sir George never married, but he adopted her as his own and she's his heir. She's twenty, twenty-one in June."

"And I take it that you are in some way concerned for this young lady?"

Molly got to her feet to attend to the lamps, even though the light had only just begun to fade. In the flickering glow from the taper I could make out worry lines on her face where there had been none earlier. "Being so close to her as she was growing up, I was overjoyed to see her back at the hall. She'd grown up, become a lady, but she was still the little girl I used to take upon my knee and tell stories to. She would come down here to the house and have tea, chat about her life abroad. You'd smile to see her, John; she's such a spirited girl, so full of life."

"I'm sure she is," I said. "Did something happen to change that?"

"It's been expected that soon her father will be finding a husband for her – he's the last of the Melvilles, you see. There has been speculation as to who it would be, even a rumour that she already has a fiancé. She laughed them off, of course, and would say nothing. But then, we suddenly stopped seeing her about. She didn't come here any more - my invitations were politely returned with a note that said Miss Charlotte had gone back to the continent, to stay with her relatives."

"Is that unusual?" asked Holmes. I could tell by the way he was lounging in his chair, his arms dangling over the sides and all his usual attitudes of attention singularly absent, that he believed Molly to be a fanciful woman, worrying herself over nothing.

"She didn't even say goodbye, Mr Holmes. Miss Charlotte wouldn't do that, run off without a word to anybody! Rudeness of that kind just isn't in her nature."

"And what of her father? What is he like?"

"If you'd asked me six months ago, I would have said that there was never a more pleasant man on this earth than the squire. Miss Charlotte may not be his natural daughter, but she's taken her cues from him. Sir George always had the well-being of his tenants at heart, would always look after his people."

"You speak of him in the past tense – did something occur to change the squire's temperament?"

"Drink, Mr Holmes," Molly replied, "Many a man's ruin. I never thought to see Sir George succumb, as he's always been a man of such temperate habits, but it's true enough. He and Miss Charlotte quarrelled often lately, so I'm told."

"Then surely," Holmes said, "is it not quite conceivable that they might have quarrelled over Sir George's choice of husband, and Miss Charlotte has taken herself back to France in a fit of pique?"

I must confess that the explanation did seem to me to be a likely one, but Molly did not agree.

"That would be possible, were it not for something that occurred not three days ago when I was cycling back from town. There's a lane that passes the hall – Sir George's grandfather granted the villagers access some time in the last century – and as I rode I happened to glance up and see the attic windows. My heart nearly stopped – I could see, quite clearly, Miss Charlotte standing there, her hands pressed against the glass!" She looked at us both beseechingly. "She was trying to say something, but from that distance I could not make out the words. But I saw her, Mr Holmes, I saw her as clearly as I see you now!"

I looked at Holmes – he was sitting up straight in his chair, completely alert now. "You are quite certain it was Miss Melville?"

Molly nodded, her chin jutting determinedly. "I don't imagine things, Mr Holmes. I've a sharp eye, and a brain in my head, and I know that it was Miss Charlotte at the window. I happened to run into the housekeeper as I reached home, and I asked her if the mistress had returned from her travels. You can imagine my astonishment when she told me that Sir George had received a letter that morning telling him that Miss Charlotte intended to remain in the south of France for the rest of the summer!"

"Why should she say such a thing if the girl is in the house?" I wondered.

"Because evidently either the girl is not in the house, or if she is then the servants are unaware of the fact," said Holmes. He thought for a moment, one finger pressed against his lips in that pose I knew of old. "It is an intriguing story, Mrs Foster, but I am not sure that any crime I recognise is being committed."

"No crime? That poor young woman is a prisoner in her own home – I have the evidence of my own eyes!" Molly exclaimed.

He smiled slightly. "I fear that will not suffice in a court of law. Reprehensible it may be, but in law a father may lock up an underage daughter in his house should he see fit."

"Holmes!" I objected, remembering poor Alice Rucastle, kept prisoner by her father because she would not sign over her inheritance to him.

"I did not say that I approved of the practise, Watson. But what makes you think that a murder will be committed, Mrs Foster?" Holmes asked. "From what you have told me, I can see nothing which might point to such an atrocious act."

Molly shook her head. "I don't know, Mr Holmes. I can't tell you exactly, but…every fibre of my being tells me that there will be some harm done in that house before long. I can feel it!" She looked at me desperately, as if entreating me to believe her. "Things have changed there recently – Sam will tell you, he spends much of his time at the hall. Things have changed, and not for the good!"

I did not know what to say. I wanted to believe her, of course I did, but it was indeed fanciful. But then again, more than once in the past a woman's fancies had been proved correct in such situations. Even Holmes had had to concede the value of a woman's intuition, however reluctantly.

At length, he sighed. "Very well, Mrs Foster. I am between cases at present, and in view of your relationship to my friend Watson I will make some enquiries. However, I cannot promise to either confirm or allay your fears."

A smile of relief swept over Molly's face. I thought for a moment that she might launch herself at Holmes in much the same way as she had embraced me earlier, but she thankfully restrained herself, instead pouring a fresh cup of tea. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. If you can help that girl you will earn my eternal gratitude."

* * *

The following morning, after a hearty breakfast during which Molly made a concerted attempt to get Holmes to eat a decent meal, claiming much to his horror that he needed fattening up, we accompanied Samuel up to the hall. Before we left, however, I took the opportunity to twit Holmes on his apparent encyclopaedic knowledge of Molly's books, displayed during a conversation the previous evening.

"You did not tell me that your choice of reading matter extended to women's novels," I said mischievously as I found my hat.

"I did not deem it necessary. And, contrary to what you are thinking, I did not read them through personal choice; it was vital in order to help a client."

"That sounds like an odd sort of case."

"Two runaway schoolgirls were using the books as a means of communication - they devised a code based on the actions of the characters. It was quite ingenious for two so young," Holmes replied, patting his pockets to make sure he had all the paraphernalia he usually carried with him. He had brought it all, as usual, even though I had forbidden him from working. It rankled slightly that my orders had been countermanded, but I could not say no to my own cousin, and there was no stopping Holmes once he scented a mystery.

I frowned now. "I do not recall such a case."

"You were busy, and I was bored. It was a trifling matter, but it saved me from ennui for a few days." He took his stick from the stand in the hall and looked at me expectantly. "Shall we go?"

It was a beautiful day, the sun steady in its ascent into the blue sky, the birds warbling in the trees and the crickets chirruping in the long grass as we walked. Holmes had decided to begin his investigations at the spot where the 'missing' girl had last been seen.

"I must thank you for humouring Molly, Mr Holmes," Samuel said after a companionable silence, "though I fear you may be wasting your time."

"You do not believe your wife's story, Mr Foster?" Holmes enquired. I must confess that, had I not seen some of the things in my time with Holmes that I had, I might have Samuel's reluctance to take the somewhat extraordinary story seriously. He hesitated for a moment before he said,

"I would like to, I swear I would, but I cannot credit it."

"Molly would not lie, surely?" I said, not even wishing to consider the idea.

"No, certainly not. But I do think she may have been mistaken in what she thinks she saw. I visit the house several times a week, gentlemen, and I have not seen Miss Charlotte for at least a fortnight."

Holmes swung his stick at the long grass on the side of the path. "We will discover the truth, one way or the other. How long have you been Sir George's steward?"

"Ten years. Before that I worked as estate clerk to Mr Addleston, the previous steward," Sam replied.

"So I presume you know the squire reasonably well. What can you tell me about him?"

"I wouldn't say I know him well. Not sure anyone does – the squire is a private man, Mr Holmes. I'm led to believe that there was a great tragedy in his life which is why he never married, but he's a good man, no matter what others say."

"Molly tells us that Sir George has recently taken to the bottle," I said.

Samuel nodded sadly. "That's true enough. He made a scene in the Green Man – that's the local tavern – and Mr Cranleigh the landlord had no choice but to send for the carriage and have Sir George taken home. He was in no fit state to get there by himself. But that's not typical of him. Something must have happened to drive him to the drink."

"Something between him and his daughter?" suggested Holmes.

"I suspect it. That's the hall, there, gentlemen. Built in 1574 – the first Sir George entertained Queen Elizabeth here, and near bankrupted himself in the process." Samuel raised an arm and pointed - we had crested the rise, and below us in a shallow valley stood the house, lovely in the morning sunlight. Melville Hall was a typical Elizabethan E-shape building of the mellow local stone, wings to the east and west connected by a central block. A gravelled drive swept up to the front door, approaching from the direction opposite to the one in which we had come, but it was the mullioned windows that evidently interested Holmes, and not the ground floor windows at that.

He pushed his stick into the soft earth and stood leaning upon it, regarding the house. "Now, that is interesting," he said, and then addressed Samuel: "This lane – is it the one conferred on the villagers for their use by the squire's ancestor?"

"It is indeed," Foster replied. "Sir George's grandfather gave the locals permission to cut across the estate when the town began to grow – many of them that don't work on the estate found jobs there."

"And this is the path your wife would have taken on...Tuesday, was it? When she claims to have seen Charlotte Melville at the window?" When Samuel responded in the affirmative, Holmes nodded. "I see. She would have been coming up that rise, with her back to the hall, if she were returning from the town as she says. So what was it that made her glance back to see the figure at the attic window?"

"Some noise? A cry?" I said.

"She mentioned nothing of the kind."

"Perhaps some instinct caused her to look back at that moment."

"Perhaps." He did not sound convinced, sharp eyes sweeping over the ground. "Has there been any rain in the last few days?" he enquired.

Samuel shook his head. "Not since Monday night."

"Excellent. That is exactly what I wished to hear." A satisfied expression came over Holmes's features, and as we watched he began to pace carefully along the path, eyes fixed upon the floor, hands clasped behind his back. After some time spent in this hunched position, taking careful, birdlike steps so as not to disturb something in the dried mud, he gave a great cry of delight and fell to his knees, one hand tugging his lens from the pocket of his jacket. With the aid of the glass, he proceeded to crawl along a stretch of the grass verge like a bloodhound, his nose barely two inches from the surface of the soil. Samuel glanced at me in confusion – I shrugged and shook my head. Holmes was on the scent of something, and whatever it was he would no doubt soon enlighten us.

I was not disappointed.

"Bicycle tracks!" he called, sitting back upon his heels and beckoning us to his side. "Tracks heading quite clearly from the direction of town."

"Surely that merely corroborates Molly's story," I said.

He gave me a long-suffering glance. "If that is all, then explain to me the tracks heading in the opposite direction, Watson."

"Presumably since Molly was returning, she would have passed this way earlier."

"She didn't," said Samuel, surprising me. "If I recall correctly, she told me that she would take some groceries to old Mrs Tweedale who lives over near Tatworth. That journey would have taken her down Barton Lane."

"Added to that is the fact that the two tracks have been made by two different sets of tyres," said Holmes.

"Holmes is familiar with forty different impressions left by tyres," I said, exchanging a glance with Samuel, who smiled.

My friend glared at me and said tartly, "Forty-_two_, actually, Watson. Another person rode this way, and stopped to speak with Mrs Foster. You can see where they have both rested their feet on the ground while they talked."

Samuel frowned. "She never mentioned meeting anyone that day."

"Why should she? It might be of no consequence to anyone unaware of the secret they shared," said Holmes, getting to his feet and dusting off his knees.

I think we both must have gaped at him. "Secret?" I repeated, quite astonished. "What kind of secret?"

Holmes smiled slightly. "Ah, if we could determine that it would be a secret no longer." He returned to the spot in which he had left his stick and retrieved it, swinging it over his shoulder. "Well, gentlemen, shall we continue to the house?" Without waiting for either of us to respond, he strode off down the hill towards Melville Hall.

Samuel shook his head. "He's a right one and no mistake."

"He is indeed," I said, and hurried to catch up with my friend, Foster good-naturedly bringing up the rear.

We had not gone far, however, when a shout rang out, loud in the little valley, startling some birds from a nearby tree. The tone was not welcoming in the least, and to my alarm it was joined by a low growling.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing? This is private property – clear off or I'll set the dog on you!"

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Two chapters in two days to make up for the long gap this week. :)**

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

* * *

**JACK IN THE GREEN**

**CHAPTER FOUR**

_Now Jack In The Green he's a very strange man_

_Though he dies every Autumn he's born in the Spring_

_And each year on his birthday we will dance through the streets_

_And in return Jack he will ripen our wheat_

_- Martin Graebe, performed by Magpie Lane_

I reached Holmes as he stopped halfway down the gravelled path that led to the house. Coming towards us was a tall young man with dark hair and an even darker expression on his angular face, a gun slung over one shoulder and a mastiff straining on a lead. His whole posture was belligerent, shoulders squared as though he expected a fight with some poor visitor to be in the offing.

"Did you not hear me?" he demanded when he neared us. "You are trespassing. Clear off!"

"I do apologise," said Holmes smoothly, not intimidated by the newcomer's attitude in the least. "We understood that this was an extension of the public path."

"Well it isn't," the youth snapped, glaring at us both. "Be off with you at once."

Samuel had joined us by now, and said, "I'm sorry, Mr Jack, I should have been with them. This is Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson, from London. They've come to pay a call on Sir George."

"I don't care if they've come from Balmoral, Foster, they are not welcome. My godfather is unable to receive visitors, you should know that. Or rather you would if you were doing your job properly."

"Oh, now that is a shame," Holmes declared before Samuel could respond to the insult. A suitably downcast demeanour had come over my friend's face. "I am something of an eighteenth century portrait enthusiast, particularly the work of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and I had been told that the hall boasts several excellent examples of that artist's work."

The young man stared at Holmes with a peculiar expression, as if he had just been spoken to in Urdu, before he replied curtly, "You are mistaken. We have nothing by Reynolds, only a Gainsborough, and it is not a very good one."

Holmes's look of dejection increased, and he sighed. "Ah. It seems I must have been misinformed. I was so looking forward to viewing some eighteenth century paintings today…may I see your sub-standard Gainsborough?"

There was a pause, during which the dog continued to growl and pull at the lead that was restraining it, and I almost held my breath in anticipation.

"I have no time to show idle tourists about the house," the young man declared at last. "Foster, kindly take your friends back to the path and do not bring them near the house again. You have overstepped your authority."

Samuel looked shocked at being spoken to in such a manner. "I am sorry, sir. I was not aware that Sir George had placed such restrictions."

"No doubt he would have informed you of them, in good time. You had best remember that though you may have been steward for some years, things change, and no one is indispensable."

Anger surged up within me at that moment, and I took a step towards the arrogant young upstart to demand exactly who he thought he was and what gave him the right to berate an excellent man like Samuel in that domineering manner. I opened my mouth, the words on the tip of my tongue as the lout brushed past me, but Holmes's hand on my arm and a slight shake of his head held me back.

"Oh," he called after the young man, "If I were to have some business with Sir George, when would it be convenient to call?"

"Sir George does not receive strangers. Mr Foster deals with the estate business, and if you have any other enquiries to make the tradesman's entrance is at the rear of the house," came the unpleasant reply.

When he had gone, thankfully taking his snarling dog with him, I allowed free reign to my indignation. "Insolent puppy!" I exclaimed. "Who the devil does he think he is?"

"That is a question to which I would also like an answer," said Holmes, looking after the departing youth with interest.

Samuel's honest face flushed with embarrassment. "I really must apologise, gentlemen. Sir George has never placed restrictions upon access to the house before - "

"He has evidently changed his mind. Or someone has changed it for him. That delightful young man is the squire's godson?"

"Mr John Prior. He appeared on the doorstep six months ago, and since then he's wormed his way into Sir George's affections. It's hard to see why as he's not a pleasant lad by any means."

"That's putting it mildly," I muttered.

"Unfortunately, he's got interested in the running of the estate, and plagues me constantly wanting to know about this and that. He's got it into his head that I'm fiddling the books somehow."

"Good God! I hope you put him in his place."

"I can only go so far in that, John. I have my situation to think of, and he knows it," said Samuel with a grimace. "He enjoys the power, and Sir George has given him plenty. He's been changing things, hiring and firing the staff. Several have left rather than deal with him, gone to find work in Banbury. He'll kill the estate, the way he's going."

"And yet his godfather allows this to happen," I said. "It seems a rather odd way to run things."

"Very odd indeed. I take it that there is no chance of seeing inside the hall today?" Holmes asked. When Samuel shook his head, he swung his stick over his shoulder once more and began the trudge back up the slope to the public path, his long legs accomplishing the incline with little effort. "In that case, there is little more we can do here."

At the top of the rise, however, he stopped, looking back at the house, his attention apparently upon the high gabled windows in the roof. From this position, and in such bright sunlight, it was impossible to make out anything that might be behind the glass.

"Could it have been a trick of the light that made Molly think she saw someone there?" I wondered.

Holmes stared for a few more seconds, and then abruptly turned his back on the hall. "Perhaps," was all he would say on the matter.

* * *

Samuel had to leave us shortly to attend to his work, and so, after walking with him to the estate offices, we spent the rest of the morning engaged in a leisurely ramble about the district, breaking at last for lunch at the Green Man in the village. The tavern was a small but welcoming establishment, its sign portraying a strange, fairytale creature made of leaves which attracted Holmes's attention for a few moments, as did – much to my surprise - the photographs of a local cricket match that hung on the wall of the public bar. We sat outside with our drinks, watching a group of lads erecting the maypole on the green for the celebrations on Monday.

Holmes took the opportunity to smoke several cigarettes while we rested companionably upon a big wooden settle by the door to the public bar, managing to almost stifle the occasional cough the tobacco still produced. I forbore to comment, knowing that, while he might have given up the cocaine for me, I would never lure him away from tobacco in all its forms. I was not exactly an example in that direction myself. He sat there, apparently quite contented, wreathed in blue smoke while he made a series of apparently random deductions about the various passers-by.

As strangers in the village, our arrival had inevitably occasioned some comment, and several people stopped to pass the time of day, from the butcher to the baker ("No doubt the candlestick-maker will be along in a moment," Holmes remarked dryly). There was one man, however, sitting on the opposite side of the door and nursing a pint glass, who did not speak to us, and who therefore naturally interested my friend. He was reasonably young, perhaps thirty, with wild curly brown hair and blue eyes which blinked owlishly from behind heavy spectacles. His dress was sober and respectable, the only relief from the warmth of the afternoon he allowed himself being the unbuttoning of his jacket and a slight loosening of his tie. As we sat there, he gazed constantly across the green, occasionally withdrawing a fine gold watch from his waistcoat pocket to check the time. A bicycle was propped up against the wall of the tavern beside him, and I realised that I had seen no one else with one all day.

This was evidently what piqued Holmes's curiosity, as he called out to the man. "Good afternoon! A keen cyclist, I see."

Our silent companion looked startled, and turned to peer myopically at us both. After a brief hesitation, he said, "Yes. It is the easiest way to get about in these parts."

"You have a very fine machine there. A recent purchase?"

"Fairly recent. I have had it for two months."

Holmes nodded. "You must have been overjoyed with such an expensive present. I doubt if you could afford a bicycle so fine on a schoolmaster's wage."

I might have been surprised by this remark had I not just then spotted, as Holmes had evidently done before me, the exercise books in the bulging saddlebag of the bicycle. The young man, however, looked astonished. "However did you know that, sir?"

Holmes smiled, gratified as always that his deductions had secured the intended reaction. "It is quite simple. You have the slightly harassed look of all those found dealing with a group of unruly children. Your air is bookish, but in this community there is no library so you cannot be surrounded by literature on a regular basis, yet there are still a number of volumes in your bag. When I see chalk on your sleeve and ink on you fingers, the matter becomes a simple one."

"And there I was thinking I must have my profession written upon my face. I am indeed the schoolmaster, sir, Henry Edwards is my name. You must be the gentlemen from London."

We introduced ourselves, but Edwards showed no sign of having recognised our names. Holmes's presence had caused little comment amongst the villagers to whom we had spoken, which produced a mixture of relief and irritation in him. Now, however, he used his lack of celebrity to his advantage, discussing cycling with the young schoolmaster with a knowledge that might have surprised anyone unaware of his eclectic range of interests. Edwards was happy to enthuse upon the subject, and I sat back with my glass, enjoying the view. A few children had come out of the houses that bordered the green, and were experimentally skipping around the maypole, its lack of ribbons not deterring them in any way.

"I suppose you use the lane past the hall a good deal," Holmes said, bringing me out of my contented reverie.

"Once or twice a week, yes. It is the quickest way into town," Edwards replied.

"Do you ever meet Mrs Foster when you travel that way? I understand that she is also fond of bicycling."

The young man frowned slightly. "I meet many people on that lane, Mr Holmes. It is used by the whole village." There was defensiveness in his voice which had not been there before. After a moment or two more, he drained his glass and got to his feet, pulling his bicycle from behind the table. "I must leave you, gentlemen – I have an appointment with Jack. It has been pleasant conversing with you."

Holmes smiled. "Yes, a delightful…" He trailed off, and grimaced, rubbing his forehead, his eyes quite suddenly vague and unfocussed. "I must apologise, my mind seems to have…wandered. I have not been well lately."

Edwards looked uncomfortable, as some people are wont to do around those who are ill. I, however, knowing Holmes as I did and that he was almost completely recovered by now, could see that this sudden 'illness' was an act, and wondered at the reason for it. Before I could say anything, my friend's eyes closed, and he toppled from his chair onto the floor. I jumped up and crouched at his side, going along with whatever he was doing despite being aware that there was no danger. He convulsed several times, quite convincingly, before he lay still. I made a show of examining him for the schoolmaster's benefit, since it was obviously he at whom this performance was directed, and pronounced that the fit was past.

"Is he all right?" Edwards asked worriedly. "Should I fetch someone? If the illness is serious - "

"It comes and goes," I replied, as Holmes made a great show of disorientation as he 'came round'. "He will be fine with rest." I leaned over him, saying loudly, "Holmes? Holmes, can you hear me?"

He swayed for a moment, blinking up at me. "…Watson? What…what happened?"

"You fainted, Holmes. I'll take you back to the house."

"House…yes, good idea…"

I helped him to his feet, though he could have easily risen without my aid, thanking Edwards for his offer of assistance but politely declining. The schoolmaster, giving Holmes one last concerned glance, mounted his bicycle and pedalled off to his appointment with 'Jack'. The curious eyes of the landlord of the Green Man, who had emerged from his domain for a breath of air, spurred me to hurry Holmes away as fast as his suitably halting gait of an unwell man would allow.

Once we were out of sight, he straightened and ceased to lean upon my arm, laughing with satisfaction at his little charade. I cannot say I shared his enthusiasm, and I told him so.

"I do apologise, my dear fellow," he said, though the smile lingered around his lips, which continually twitched upwards.

"I take it you accomplished whatever your aim was with that performance?"

"Perfectly. My position upon the ground gave me not only an excellent view of Mr Edwards's bicycle tyres, but of his shoes as well. It was he to whom your cousin stopped to speak on Tuesday – I observed his footprints in the mud."

"But," I said, "If that is the case, why have neither of them mentioned it?"

"Edwards was becoming suspicious of my line of questioning, and had no reason to share his personal business with me," Holmes mused. "Mrs Foster, however, is another matter. I am not used to being engaged in a case and then have the principal keep facts from me. If such a meeting was innocent, she might have mentioned it in passing. Her omission leads me to believe that is was not innocent. There is no other reason to conceal it. I also," he added, holding up a hand when I opened my mouth to object, "managed to pick out the Dunlop tyre tracks of Edwards's bicycle coming up the path that leads to the house. The gravel has evidently not been raked recently."

"Why did you not put that to him?"

"We are guests in this community, Watson. No crime that I can see has been committed, and as your cousin has not seen fit to inform Mr Edwards that she has engaged me in this matter, we should tread carefully. I have the impression that were we to pry too far into the lives of the locals we would find ourselves swiftly hounded onto the next train back to London." His tone was one of levity, but I could sense the seriousness that lay behind it. Even had a crime taken place, Holmes's position as an unofficial investigator was somewhat precarious, especially in an area such as this where his name was not generally known. Unprotected here by the kind of cooperation from the local authorities he enjoyed in London, he could quickly find himself in difficulties.

"What should we do now?" I asked.

Holmes pointed with his stick to the roof that was just visible above the trees ahead of us. "I am led to believe that the church contains some rather fascinating decoration. Shall we take a look?"

I am always curious to see new places, and so I followed him down an avenue of yew trees to the tiny church. Built from crumbling grey stone, it was a low building with a porch and small windows, leaning gravestones marking the borders of the path along which we stepped. The graves were well-kept, the grass neatly cropped and fresh flowers lying upon some of the plots. Holmes ducked under the low lintel of the porch, remarking that the building was quite obviously Saxon with later alterations. As I moved to follow him I had the curious sensation of being watched, and looked up to see a most malignant face staring down at me from above the doorway. It might have been human to begin with, but its features were twisted, obscured by the greenery that trailed around its head. I had never seen anything like it before.

Realising that I had not followed him, my friend retraced his steps and joined me before the porch, looking up at the strange decoration. "Ah," he said, nodding, "the Green Man."

I blinked in surprise. The thing had more the appearance of a monster than a man. Foliage sprouted from its mouth and nostrils as though in some bizarre approximation of facial hair. Its eyes glared at us in hostility. I had not expected to see such a thing adorning the entrance to a house of God. "The Green Man?" I repeated.

"Indeed. I assume this is the fellow from whom the tavern takes its name. Surely, Watson, you will have heard of the legendary Green Man, forest sprite and symbol of fertility and spring?"

"No, I can't say that I have. Isn't it a bit…well, heathen for a church decoration?"

Holmes shrugged. "Such things are a relic of paganism, when religion was far more mystical than it is now. I assume that the face is a symbol of protection, a little help towards a successful harvest." He slipped back into the porch and vanished into the shadows of the doorway. After another glance at the glaring Green Man, I followed.

Inside things were a little more as I would have expected, though the theme of greenery still invaded, leaves and vines curling around the pews and across the rafters. I spotted with a start another face peering at me from a corner: there was another Green Man in the roof. This one looked a little more friendly than his counterpart outside, however. The interior of the church was small and apart from this decoration somewhat plain, enlivened only by the stained glass added to the window behind the altar, and the ancient, somewhat crude, wall painting of the Last Supper. Holmes strolled about, examining this carving and that memorial plaque, until I began to find myself growing rather sleepy within the stuffy confines of the building. I sat down for a moment upon one of the old pews, and the next thing I knew, he was shaking me by the shoulder and calling my name.

I awoke, startled, to find him looking down at me in amusement. There was a crick in my neck and the interior of the church seemed darker than it had been just a few minutes before. "Wha…what is it?" I mumbled, rubbing my bleary eyes.

"Nothing important, old man, but the vicar would like to prepare for his service," Holmes said. I realised that there was an elderly man in a cassock standing behind him, his hands folded behind his back and a kindly smile on his face.

I felt myself colour in mortification, realising that I must have fallen asleep. "Oh, good heavens, I am so sorry…" I began, but the vicar raised a hand and shook his head.

"Please, don't apologise, Doctor. I have done the same thing myself more than once over the years. Mr Holmes and I have been having a most pleasant chat while you were in the arms of Morpheus." He turned to my friend. "I will dig out those records if you wish to view them tomorrow."

"Thank you, vicar; that will be most helpful." Holmes took my elbow. "Come along, Watson – your cousin will be wondering what has become of us."

I said a hurried goodbye to the man and found myself bustled out of the church. When we were a little distance from the building, Holmes let go of my arm, striding on ahead. I could tell from the way that his head was bent and the fierce driving of his stick into the ground as he walked that he had discovered something.

"You have advanced in your investigation?" I asked, jogging to catch up.

"A little, Watson, a little! Don't dawdle, man - we shall be late for tea!"

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you once again to those who have reviewed - your comments are very much appreciated! :)**

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

* * *

**JACK IN THE GREEN**

**CHAPTER FIVE**

_I saw a maid in my father's garden_

_A maid of honour she seemed to me_

_Until a young man, he stepped up to her_

_He said, 'My darling can you fancy me?'_

_- performed by Magpie Lane_

He said very little once we returned to Molly and Samuel's house and, knowing well his behaviour during an investigation, I did not press him. I took a turn with Molly in the garden, and when I glanced up at the house I happened to see him at the window of his room, apparently looking out over the fields behind us.

"Has Mr Holmes had any success with my problem?" Molly asked, following my gaze.

"A little," I said. "Holmes always keeps most of his information to himself in the early stages of a case." I had a sudden impulse to ask her why she had felt the need to hide from us her meeting with Henry Edwards, but quashed it, aware that Holmes would wish to question her himself. I only hoped that he would be somewhat less abrasive than he usually was with a client who had withheld information.

Molly was still looking up at the window. There was a flash of movement, and Holmes vanished from sight. "He is a curious creature, just as you have described. Mr Paget has done neither of you justice, though."

I glanced at her, and we both laughed. Whatever her motive for omitting some of the facts, I could not think ill of her for it, and I was very glad to be in her company once more after so many years. I said as much, and she squeezed my arm.

"Come along," she said, steering me towards the house. "Supper will be almost ready. Perhaps I will be able to persuade Mr Holmes to eat something this time."

* * *

Holmes was largely silent during the meal, and ate sparingly despite the stern physician's glares I shot him across the table. To make up for my friend's lack of conversation, I found myself telling Molly and Samuel about our afternoon, culminating in our visit to the church.

"Ah, you met Jack, then," said Molly with a broad smile.

I blinked in surprise, for we had encountered no one of that name. "Jack?"

"The Green Man, I fancy, Watson. I doubt if Mrs Foster refers to Mr Prior with such warmth," said Holmes raising an eyebrow.

"Indeed I would not, Mr Holmes. I mean our Jack in the Green, on the church. He looks after the harvest, ripens the wheat," Molly explained. "Been watching over the village for a good few centuries."

"Scared off a few vicars, too," Samuel added in evident amusement. "Not many can handle something like that staring down at them every time they enter the church to take a service."

"I can understand why!" I said with feeling. "Why has it not been removed?"

"Remove old Jack? John, how can you suggest such a thing?" Molly exclaimed, affronted. "We'd never grow another crop again! Jack's been there longer than any of us can lay claim to, and he'll still be there when we're gone."

"It's all superstition, of course," said Sam, spearing some chicken with his fork. "There's some that don't like it much these days, say its heathen and want to be rid of the Maying for the same reason."

Molly's eyes flashed angrily, and she cut through the bread she was slicing with more force than was strictly necessary. "They should keep their busy-body town noses out of matters than don't concern them. The Maying's been happening here for over two hundred years, ever since it was reinstated after the Restoration. There's folk about who want to destroy every tradition we have left, and it's not right!"

Holmes was listening to the discussion with evident interest, but I could see that the subject was a contentious one, and could rapidly rise into a heated argument, so I said the first thing that popped into my head, which turned out to be,

"Holmes and I encountered Mr Henry Edwards this afternoon, at the Green Man in the village."

My friend's sharp grey gaze immediately snapped to Molly, and I realised too late that I had inadvertently brought the subject to the matter I had been trying to avoid. There was nothing I could do about it now, little as I wished for an interrogation over the supper table.

"Really? I had thought that he was going to visit relatives in Oxford today," Molly said, her tone casual as she offered me the bread.

"He did mention an appointment," Holmes responded. "If he were intending to catch a train he could have made the station swiftly on his _bicycle_." He laid a stress upon the final word, his eyes still upon Molly, and she put down the plate, looking up to meet his gaze. "I believe that is something you and he have in common, Mrs Foster. The two of you are the only people in the village I have seen who possess a bicycle – no doubt you often meet as you journey about the countryside."

There was a pause, during which Samuel looked confused and I almost held my breath.

Then Molly said, carefully laying down her bread knife and clasping her hands together, "This is a small community, Mr Holmes. I meet many people."

"That is almost exactly what Mr Edwards said." Holmes's expression softened slightly as he looked at her, and he continued, "I am aware that, as a mere stranger Mr Edwards would be reluctant to tell me of something close to his heart, but I am disappointed that you have asked me to investigate this matter but do not give me all the facts. I might have hoped that my long-standing friendship with your cousin might have persuaded you to trust me a little more."

I will admit to being surprised by the gentleness of this little speech, knowing how caustic Holmes could be when discovering that his investigations had been deliberately impeded (however well-intentioned) by a client. My friend does, despite his general dislike and distrust of their sex, possess a remarkable instinct for handling women, and it was that talent I found on display at this moment. There would be nothing to gain from brow-beating Molly, something he had no doubt gauged upon meeting her.

She sat, her head turned away, for some moments, before eventually she nodded. "You are right. I must apologise for misleading you, Mr Holmes, but I did not act out of a deliberate desire to cause difficulties. Rather I - "

"You lied to protect your young charge. That is in itself an admirable sentiment, if perhaps a little misguided in the circumstances." Holmes reached into his pocket and withdrew his silver cigarette case, tapping one out upon the lid before he realised he had run out of matches. Instead of putting the cigarette away again, he continued to hold it between two fingers, gesturing with it as he spoke. "Shall I tell you what really happened on Tuesday afternoon?"

Samuel was looking at his wife, a frown creasing his brow. "I for one would like to know."

Molly said nothing, and I could think of no useful contribution, so Holmes, having the floor by default, said, "Very well. It is quite a simple chain of events. You were indeed cycling back from town, Mrs Foster, where you had been posting your latest manuscript to your publisher. That much is clear from the tracks your bicycle tyres made in the fresh mud – there has been no rain and little subsequent traffic in the last few days to obliterate them. You did not, however, stop close to the hall merely by chance. You met someone you knew, someone cycling up the path from the hall, someone you were not surprised to see there. That someone was Mr Henry Edwards, the man who took over the control of the village school when you decided to devote yourself to your writing."

"Edwards?" Samuel said in surprise. "What the devil was he doing up at the hall?"

"That is an excellent question, and I one believe I can answer. Mr Edwards and Miss Melville are in love, are they not, Mrs Foster?"

I will confess to sharing Samuel's surprise when Molly nodded. "They confided in me after I came upon them together in the school room one day. Harry didn't want to tell me, but Miss Charlotte insisted they could trust me. She made me promise to tell no one – she knew that her father wanted her to marry a man of her own station, a man of property. He would never agree to her giving her hand to a penniless teacher."

"So you helped them to meet in the knowledge that Miss Melville will shortly be of age and can marry whom she chooses. But then came the day, a week or so ago, when you realised you had not seen Miss Melville for a few days. Presumably they would arrange their trysts on a regular basis, and Edwards told you that she had agreed to meet him and not arrived," said Holmes.

"Yes. I said that perhaps she had been detained at the house, her father not being a well man these days," Molly replied delicately. "But the next time she failed to arrive I began to worry. I spoke to Mrs Carter, the housekeeper up at the hall, and she told me Miss Charlotte had gone to France for the summer. I did wonder whether the woman was lying – she has not held her position for long, and I know that Miss Charlotte does not like her."

"And you became suspicious because she would not have gone without seeing her fiancé first," I said.

"Exactly. Harry – Mr Edwards – became frantic, and went up to the hall to try and discover what was happening. I met him on my way home, and he told me how he had attempted to gain entry but was met by Mr Jack who threatened to set the dog on him if he put one foot on the estate again."

Holmes and I exchanged a glance, and his lip curled in disdain. "Yes, we have met the charming Mr Prior."

"Unpleasant young brute," I muttered.

"He has caused trouble ever since he arrived here," said Molly, her features contracting into an uncharacteristic expression of loathing. "Miss Charlotte told me how much she hated him, but her father would not dream of asking him to leave. To be honest, I doubt he would go even if Sir George ordered it – he has his feet well and truly under the table now. He is even causing problems for Sam, strutting about the place as though he owns it and questioning every decision Sam makes. If he comes near me I'll take my hand to him, so I will."

Samuel looked uncomfortable and turned his attention to his plate. I could see that it would be difficult for him, his loyalty divided between his wife and his employer. Molly was a determined woman, and would not have kept her dislike of John Prior to herself, I was sure.

"What happened when you met Mr Edwards leaving the hall?" Holmes asked.

"He was angry, and also somewhat distressed. I asked him what was the matter, and he said that not only had he been denied access to the hall, but Mr Jack told him Miss Charlotte had gone back to France. When Harry asked him how long for, he said, 'Forever. Sent away.' He looked pleased with himself, so Harry said." Molly looked straight at Holmes. Samuel and I might not even have been in the room – all her attention was devoted to him. "It was a lie, though, Mr Holmes –Harry stopped halfway up the path and by some premonition glanced back at the house. He saw her, just as I told you yesterday, standing at the attic window, her hands pressed against the glass. She saw him, too, tried to say something he couldn't make out, and then he says she vanished."

"And what did he do?"

"Tried to return to the house, but the dog was loose and he didn't dare force his way inside. I met him just after that – I suggested he go to the police, but they did nothing. Sergeant Taplow didn't believe a word of it, as we had no proof beyond what Harry says he saw. So that's why I wrote to John."

"Naturally not expecting us to be away from London." Holmes nodded. "It would have been easier had we been here immediately following the incident, but the delay was unavoidable. We will have to make the best of the situation. Will Mr Edwards speak to me?"

"If it will help Miss Charlotte, I am certain he will. I did not tell him I was writing to you as I did not wish to raise his hopes. But he is becoming more worried with each passing day. He does not know what to do for the best, poor boy."

"Where will he be now?"

Molly considered. "If he did not go to Oxford, then he will probably be helping the lads build their Jack. They are almost finished. It will be a magnificent parade this year." She gave a tiny smile.

"You still maintain all the old traditions?" I asked.

"Of course – the maypole, the May Queen, the Morris Men, Robin Hood and Maid Marian…the children get very excited. Naturally, though the copious amounts of alcohol that were once consumed have been watered down to keep some abstemious people happy."

"I remember when - "

Holmes looked impatient. There was a scrape as he pushed his chair back from the table. "I think we should speak to the schoolmaster without delay. Come, Watson, you can reminisce about May Days past later."

"I will come with you," said Molly, rising as well and hurrying off to find her shawl.

Samuel caught my arm as I left the room after them. "John – does Mr Holmes really believe all this? Foul play up at the hall?"

"I think he does believe that something may be happening, yes," I said, knowing that Holmes would not continue an investigation unless he thought there was something in it.

"This is awkward for me. I have always been the recipient of Sir George's trust, and Molly can be a little - "

I patted his shoulder. "I know. Better that you don't get involved, old man. We'll see to it."

He looked relieved, though I could tell that he was not easy in his mind. What man would be in such circumstances? I left him to the remains of his meal, and joined Holmes and Molly for the short walk to the village.

* * *

It was a glorious evening, the sun only just beginning its descent, the air still warm and filled with the scent of the flowers in Molly's garden. We strolled down the lane – or rather Molly and I did, Holmes striding purposefully out in front. More than once he had to stop to allow us to catch up, annoyance obvious in his expression.

"This way?" he asked as we reached the Green Man and the village green. Without waiting for an answer, he was across the grass and heading in the direction of the row of cottages on the opposite side to the tavern.

There was a group of boys of around the same age as the majority of Holmes's Irregulars gathered on the green, kicking a ball about. Too old for the school room, they would be of an age to work in the fields and nearby businesses, no doubt taking the opportunity for a little childish play on such a fine evening.

Molly frowned at the sight of them. "Timothy!" she called out, and one of the lads, an urchin with red hair and freckles, looked round.

"Yes, Mrs Foster?"

"Where is Mr Edwards? I thought you were helping him to finish the Jack this evening?"

The boy shook his head. "We were, but Mr Edwards isn't here. Old Man Rafferty says he got called away all of a sudden – locked up and went off on his bicycle about an hour ago, he did."

"Is that unusual?" I asked as we caught up with Holmes, who was waiting for us in front of a square whitewashed building on the end of the row. A small cottage stood to one side, close enough for me to guess that it must belong to the teacher, given its proximity to what could only be the school room.

"I did not lie when I told you he had relatives in Oxford. Perhaps one of them is ill," Molly said, though she still looked concerned. "I am surprised that he went off without sending word to the boys, though. That is most unlike him."

We related this fresh information to Holmes, who looked momentarily irritated that his chief witness had upped and vanished. He turned towards the cottages. "This is Mr Edwards's home?" he asked.

Molly confirmed that it was, and we walked up to the building. All the doors were locked, as were those of the school room. Peering through the window, I could see the same desks and blackboard as furnished every similar institution in the country. The walls were decorated with maps and children's drawings, as was usual, but the great thicket of greenery in one corner was a somewhat eccentric addition. I mentioned this to Molly, who smiled and said,

"That is Jack. Jack in the Green," she added when I looked at her blankly. "He is part of the May Day festivities, a personification of our own Jack. One of the boys will wear the framework, which will be covered in leaves."

I nodded, comprehension dawning. So many Jacks…it was quite confusing to keep up with them all.

Holmes had joined us, having walked round both buildings looking for a point of entry and evidently failed to find one. "This is most awkward," he said, tapping his stick against his boot in frustration. Had we been in a more remote spot, or even in the heart of London, he would have had no compunction against using his lock picks to force the door. There was not a lock in England that could remain impervious to his skills as a burglar, but in such a small community his every move would be noted, even under the supposed cover of darkness. I could see a curtain twitching two doors down – he would have to be more circumspect. "It seems that there is little we can do until either Mr Edwards returns or we can gain access to the hall, whichever event occurs first."

"And in the meantime?" I asked.

He smiled slightly, despite his annoyance. "We sleep on it, Watson. Perhaps the morning will bring clarity."

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

**Here we are again. :)**

**Thank you so much for all the reviews, and to those who commented on _First Blood_ - I'm thrilled you all liked it so much. :)**

**On with Chapter Six. Usual disclaimers naturally apply.**

* * *

**JACK IN THE GREEN**

**CHAPTER SIX**

_With his mantle he'll cover the trees that are bare_

_And our gardens he'll trim with his jacket so fair_

_But our fields he will sow with the hair of his head_

_And our grain it will ripen till the old Jack is dead_

_- Martin Graebe, performed by Magpie Lane_

I found it difficult to sleep that night.

Every time I closed my eyes I saw the gurning countenance of the Green Man. Try as I might I could not rid myself of the infernal thing, and I definitely could not accept it as a benign creature, a god of the spring and harvest. I was being irrational, I knew, but to me there seemed to be something malevolent about it, as it tripped its way through my mind, scattering leaves behind it.

Eventually, at about half past two I gave up the struggle and ventured downstairs to borrow one of Molly's books, which I had seen given pride of place on the case in the parlour. If I could not sleep then at least I could spend the time acquainting myself with the writings of my only living relative. If Holmes were to be believed, they would no doubt appeal to my 'romantic nature'.

I had assumed everyone to be asleep at such an hour, and so was most surprised and somewhat alarmed to see a light shining under the parlour door, and a shadow moving about within. My first thought was of burglars, and the next that it might be best to fetch my revolver from my room before reason kicked in and I realised that it might easily be Molly or Samuel, equally unable to close their eyes for long. Nevertheless, I picked up a stout stick from the hall stand as I opened the door, brandishing it in my free hand.

"Do come in and close the door, Watson," Holmes's voice said, startling me. "And please put the weapon away. You do not look in the least threatening, I assure you. No man in his nightclothes ever does."

I threw the stick onto the sofa and shut the door quietly behind me. "What the devil are you doing down here?" I asked. He was curled up on the window seat, the window itself open behind him to allow the smoke from his cigarette to escape. Evidently he had been unable to sleep as well, as I could see from the light of the single lamp he had lit that he was wrapped in his mouse-coloured dressing gown.

"I needed to think," he said. "Sleep does not come easily to me."

I frowned. His eating and sleeping habits were usually deplorable, but I had thought that lately I was having success in trying to establish a regular routine. "Things were getting better in that respect, were they not?"

He gave me a quick smile. "I often find myself wakeful, even without the concerns of a case to occupy me. The legacy of an old friend, it would seem." As he held the cigarette to his lips I could see his hand shaking, and realised he was referring to the cocaine.

I had warned him before we made our trip to Cornwall that in giving up the drug he would suffer from uncomfortable symptoms as his body struggled to deal with the withdrawal. In the event he had appeared to cope with the sudden changes in mood, the tremors and disturbed sleep patterns, as they made less of an impact on him than they would have done on a man of more regular habits. I had, however, assumed as he had ceased to mention them that the symptoms were becoming less severe. It would seem that I was wrong, and I found myself wondering whether the performance that afternoon had been entirely an act for Edwards's benefit.

"You should have told me," I said now.

Holmes shrugged. "I did not wish to worry you further. You have had entirely too much to concern you of late."

"Do you really think that would matter to me? I am your friend, Holmes – I only wish to see you well again."

"So you do not think it some kind of divine retribution that I am continuing to suffer for my foolishness?"

"No, I do not."

He cast me a sidelong glance. "Really? I am not so sure."

"That is arrant nonsense, Holmes." I crossed the dim room to his side. The smell of his tobacco mingled with that of the night-scented stock growing outside. "Is there anything I can get you? Do you need - "

"No, no, none of your doctoring." He waved the suggestion away. "I have endured the discomfort thus far; no doubt I can see it through. That is, of course, if there is to be an end to it."

"Of course there will be an end. Everything has its end, Holmes." I sat down on the seat beside him and accepted a cigarette from the offered case, glad he had not decided to light his pipe and fill the room with the noxious fug it usually produced. "Is there likely to be a swift end to this case?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "Everything has its end, Watson."

"You know what I mean. Was your visit to the vicar this evening helpful?" He had not walked back to the house with us after our fruitless visit to the school room, instead claiming he wished to speak to the Reverend Culver again.

"Possibly. It is difficult when there are so few concrete facts to deal with. Everything so far has been relayed to me by a third party. I need first-hand evidence!"

"Well," I said, trying to sound cheerful, "Maybe the schoolmaster will be able to provide that evidence. He did see the girl, after all."

He did not look convinced, but said, "I hope so, Watson, I hope so." He sighed, sharply, and stubbed out the remains of his cigarette, flicking it through the window to land amongst the bushes. Getting abruptly to his feet, he began to pace, back and forth in front of the light, like some ghostly apparition. "Had I been aware of the true facts last night - "

"I am sorry that Molly felt she had to withhold the information, but a promise - "

" – is a promise. Yes, I have heard that before. It has aided no one and been the cause of several deaths."

"I pray that will not be the case here. You should not be such a cynic, Holmes," I said, a little disturbed by this attitude.

"How can I be otherwise when I have seen such things? You are lucky, Watson, you have retained your faith in human nature." He stopped moving for a moment and regarded me sadly. "There are times when I envy you that."

It was very late, and we were both tired. That was the only explanation I had for this most uncharacteristic confession. I stood up. "You need sleep, old man. So do I. I'm sure that things will look better in the morning."

He sighed again and nodded, watching me as I closed the window and blew out the lamp. I was used to his moods by now, but a new investigation had seemed to lift his spirits – I could only hope that it was frustration which had produced this sudden depression as I did not like to think of him sitting up at night with such thoughts. As I followed him up the stairs I wished that there was some way of ensuring progress in the case, for both our sakes.

"Holmes," I said as we reached our respective doors, a question suddenly occurring to me. He looked up, regarding me steadily in the moonlight. "How did you know that Miss Melville and Mr Edwards were courting?"

To my relief, he smiled tiredly. "The bicycle, Watson. Who but a wealthy woman, and one close to him, would have given him such an expensive present?" He opened his bedroom door. "Goodnight, my dear fellow."

I watched the door close behind him before seeking my own bed.

* * *

I have no idea whether Holmes managed to sleep that night. My only memory after entering my room is of falling into bed at some time after three and knowing nothing more until the sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains woke me several hours later.

When I descended, I discovered Molly alone at the breakfast table, Samuel gone up to the hall on some errand and no sign of Holmes. When I enquired as to his whereabouts Molly told me that he had spent some time pacing up and down in the garden before heading off towards the village.

"He would not take even a mouthful of food," she said, looking concerned. "Is that normal?"

"Unfortunately, yes. He will have been considering the facts of the case – you were right not to disturb him," I replied.

We ate in silence for a while, Molly looking absently out of the window and I trying to quell my rising frustration with my friend. I knew that I could not treat him like a child, but I was disappointed to find that after all my hard work over the past few weeks he was slipping back into his habits of old.

At last, Molly turned to me. "Will you come to church with me, John? I would appreciate some company, and Reverend Culver does not preach an unpleasant sermon."

"Very well," I agreed, knowing that I would be little use to Holmes at present even if I did know where he had gone.

* * *

The little church was full, the sermon blessedly short.

I was thankful for the latter given the effect the former and the sun shining through the small windows had on the interior, making it uncomfortably warm. Molly looked worried throughout, her eyes constantly flitting over the congregation. As I could see no sign of the schoolmaster Edwards I concluded that he had still not returned, and that his absence was not a common occurrence.

"He always attends on Sunday morning, without fail," she said as we left.

"Perhaps he was detained. If the message was urgent - "

"Perhaps. But I would like to walk back past the cottage, just to make sure, if you have no objections."

"As you wish," I said.

We strolled towards the green, which had been taken over by a group of children practising with the maypole, supervised by a couple armed with a fiddle and accordion. A jaunty tune accompanied us as we crossed the stretch of grass towards the schoolmaster's cottage.

Molly tried knocking on the door and calling the man's name, but there was no answer and no apparent life within the building. The curtains had not been pulled across the windows, and all seemed as we had left it the previous evening. While Molly tried the back of the cottage, I peered idly through the window of the school room once more. The framework which would eventually become 'Jack', with its coat of foliage, still rested upon the floor by the blackboard, but as I turned away I caught a glimpse from the corner of my eye of something else, something I had not seen there before. I shaded my eyes with my hand and attempted to see it more clearly. When I did, my heart sank into my boots.

"John?" Molly must have been standing at my shoulder for some moments before she spoke, startling me. "John, is something the matter?"

I turned to face her, not wanting to voice my fears until I was absolutely sure what had happened. "We need to fetch Holmes."

* * *

It took some time to find him.

Molly ran back to the house, but there was no trace of him inside or in the garden. We both hurried anxiously around the green, looking somewhat aimlessly for him without having any idea where he might have gone. Eventually, to my surprise the door of the Green Man opened and he came out. I knew that my friend was not interested in religion, but I had not expected to see him emerging from a tavern on a Sunday morning, especially as that tavern was not yet open for business.

"What is it, Watson?" he asked, seeing immediately the anxiety that must have been evident upon my face. I led him back to the school room and pointed out the sight that had caught my attention: protruding from behind the 'Jack' was a leg clad in tweed trousers, the hem confined by a bicycle clip.

Holmes's face tightened. "We must get inside. How strong is the door?" He slipped around the side of the building and tested his shoulder against the wood. I knew that he would have broken it down had Molly not stopped him.

"It's all right, Mr Holmes, I have a key. I fetched it when I went back to the house to find you."

"Excellent, Mrs Foster!" Holmes took the key from her, but did not open the door immediately, making instead an examination of the ground in front of it. "What do you make of those footprints, Watson?"

I crouched down to take a look. The prints were deep in the ground, as though either the person who had made them was rather heavy, or had been carrying a considerable weight. There was something curious about them, however – most shoes or boots of my acquaintance had either round or square toes, but these were pointed, quite sharply so. "I have never seen shoes like these before," I said.

"I am not surprised. No Englishman would affect such a fashion. I have encountered their like before, in Paris. They are the product of an enterprising shoemaker with a considerable flair," Holmes replied. He was kneeling, examining the door through his lens. "This door has been opened with the correct key, but by someone who quite obviously had difficulty finding the lock in the dark." He stood, inserted Molly's key into the lock, and opened the door. We followed him into the dim room beyond.

I immediately moved towards the 'Jack' in the corner. The foliage, which had begun to wither in the stuffy confines of the building, almost entirely covered the body of the unfortunate Mr Edwards. I lifted the section which would sit on the wearer's shoulders, obscuring his face, and set it aside. Behind it, the man's features were deathly pale, great bruises blossoming on his skin. Blood had dried across his forehead and down one side of his face, no doubt from a lacerated scalp wound. More had dribbled from his nose, but thankfully the bone there did not appear to be broken. I pressed two fingers to the carotid artery, and was relieved when I found a pulse, weak and thready, but still beating. As I stood there, Edwards took in a shaky breath, and I hurried to remove the rest of the framework around him.

"Holmes!" I called. "He is alive!"

My friend hurried over, and helped me to shift aside the remainder of the costume from the badly-injured schoolmaster and lay him down gently on the floor. With him in a prone position I could make a more thorough examination, and this I did carefully. He had been brutally beaten: there were several head wounds, though all of them quite shallow and looking worse than they actually were because of the amount of blood they produced; at least two broken ribs, possibly three; a handful of other fractures and extensive bruising. It was quite clear to me that whoever had perpetrated this attack had carried him to the school room and left him there, either to hide what he already believed to be a corpse, or to abandon him to his inevitable fate – whatever the reason, it was unlikely that he would have been found before Monday had I not chanced to look through the glass.

"Will he live, Doctor?" Holmes asked, watching me closely.

"If he gets treatment immediately, then he has a chance. Is there a hospital nearby?" I asked Molly, who shook her head.

"Not for at least fifteen miles."

"Then we need a doctor, urgently. I will treat him, but I cannot remain with him indefinitely – he will need constant attention. And we had better fetch the police," I added as she moved towards the door.

"I'll send lads for Doctor Bateman and Sergeant Taplow," she told me, and hurried off.

I did my best to make Edwards more comfortable, but without my bag and equipment there was little I could do. He was unconscious, and though that was dangerous it would be better for him as I had no pain relief I could administer. "Why the devil should someone wish to do this?" I wondered, my anger bubbling to the surface.

Holmes looked thoughtful. "The placing of the body is interesting, is it not?"

I glanced at the remains of the 'Jack'. "It would seem an ideal place to hide it."

"Perhaps, but is the attacker consciously or unconsciously trying to tell us something? Tomorrow is May Day, Watson, and the village will be celebrating the age-old traditions which herald the advent of spring. This 'Jack', this Green Man or whatever you wish to call him, is a symbol of that pagan rite, that of the earth coming alive again after the long winter months. He nurtures the seeds, which could of course relate to Mr Edwards's position as schoolmaster, but there is something else…" He glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. "Jack personifies fertility, Watson. Either the attacker is casting aspersions upon Mr Edwards's relationship with Miss Melville, or he is telling us something about himself."

I shook my head, fatigue and anxiety clouding my mind. I could see no such symbolism, merely a severely injured man. Before I could tell him so the door behind us banged open and Hope Barton's official representative of the law entered the room, Molly at his heels. A short, bullish man in the uniform of a sergeant of police which had evidently been donned in a hurry, he approached us, chin thrust out in a belligerent manner.

"Whatever is going on here?" he demanded. "Breaking and entering is a crime, I'll have you know."

"So I am aware. That is why I used the key," replied Holmes acidly. "This man has been brutally attacked and left for dead, sergeant. The person responsible is a little less than six feet tall, strong, and has a rather singular taste in footwear."

Taplow stared at my friend for several moments before he said, "Exactly who are you, sir?"

Holmes introduced himself, and the sergeant's face clouded even further. "Aye, I've heard of you. You're a meddler. Well, I'll have no meddling here, I'll tell you that now."

"Inspector Undershaw of the Banbury police force said the same thing. He did, however, revise his opinion when I assisted him to solve a pretty little murder," said Holmes. "I would advise you to work with me rather than against me, sergeant. I may just be able to help you, too."

"Undershaw? Would that be the Mabbitt murder, sir?" Taplow asked, his aggressive manner dissipating in an instant.

"It would indeed. If you would care to take my advice, I would direct you to the footprints directly outside the door and the scratches around the lock. Also…" Holmes moved across the room to the fireplace, and began to sift through the ashes with the poker. After a few moments he gave a cry of satisfaction and withdrew something white, which he brought to the window to examine.

"Why should anyone light a fire on such a mild evening?" I wondered.

"Why indeed?" Holmes peered at the note – for such it was – he had found through his lens. "To burn this, I would imagine. It is lucky for us that in his haste he did not check to see that the job was done." He held out both the paper and the glass to me – leaving Molly to watch over Edwards, I moved to Holmes's side to take a look. I could make out little to begin with, as the ink had faded almost into nothing from the heat of the flames. A few words retained a darker pigment, but half of the note had burned away completely, leaving just the end of a sentence:

_ke, come at once!_

_sual place._

_L._

I could make little of it. Then I became aware of Molly looking at the note over my shoulder.

"That is Miss Charlotte's writing," she said.

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

**Once again, thank you for your comments! They are very much appreciated! Please do keep them coming. :)**

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

* * *

**JACK IN THE GREEN**

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

_I says to myself, let's go to Thame Fair_

_So I went to the field to fetch the grey mare_

_Come on, old lady, come off, old lady_

_We'll have some fun at the fair_

_Here away, there we're off to Thame Fair_

_- Thame Fair, performed by Magpie Lane_

"You are certain of that?" Holmes asked.

Molly nodded. "I now it well. I taught her for eight years, Mr Holmes – I would recognise it anywhere," she said firmly.

"It could be a skilful forgery."

"It is genuine. Written under duress, perhaps, but it's hers all right."

I looked at the note again. It had been written quickly, in little more than a schoolgirl's hand, the ink smudged and blotted by what appeared to be tears. A forgery could not have replicated the distress that was evident even in the singed remains.

Holmes took it back from me, examined it again, and strode towards the door. As he reached it, it opened again to admit the local doctor, who had come at exactly the right moment to take charge of my patient. He looked Edwards over and agreed with my diagnosis, sending one of Taplow's constables running off for a stretcher. It transpired that he had summoned a surgeon from Banbury, and I was happy to leave the schoolmaster in his care.

Sergeant Taplow was inclined to linger, presumably in case Edwards should recover consciousness enough to reveal the identity of his assailant, but Holmes called imperiously from outside the building, in much the same tone he sometimes used to summon Mrs Hudson back in Baker Street. I exchanged a glance with the policeman, and he hurried outside.

"Come along, sergeant, we must hurry!" Holmes announced.

"Where are we going?" I asked, following him almost automatically.

"Melville Hall, of course. That is where all the answers lie!"

* * *

"Sir George was expected to attend the service this morning at St Peter's," Holmes said, leading us along the path that met up with the public lane to the hall. "I take it that he did not arrive?"

"I did not see anyone who might have been him," I replied. "What were you doing in the tavern?"

"Having a most enlightening conversation with the landlord, Mr Cranleigh. He tells me that Sir George arrived at the Green Man one evening two weeks ago in a most unusual state – he barely seemed to know where he was, exhibiting a worrying confusion. Cranleigh, with all the experience of such things that only a publican of many years' standing can have, assumed that the squire had been drinking heavily and summoned a carriage from the hall to take him home."

"But we already know about that. Why should it now be important?"

"Because, Watson, Sir George is apparently a man of an abstemious nature. He is not a frequent visitor to the Green Man and Cranleigh was extremely surprised to see him. Since then I believe that there has been no sign of the squire. He - " Holmes was prevented from continuing by the sound of running feet ahead of us on the track. A moment later Samuel came into view – he was pale, his face set in uncharacteristic anger. There was a sheet of paper in his hand which flapped in the breeze.

"Sam!" Molly exclaimed. "Whatever is the matter?"

"He's done it, Mr Holmes," Samuel said, pushing the paper into my friend's hands, "He's finally turned the squire against me!"

Holmes hastily read whatever the missive contained. As he did, I saw his lips press together in a thin line. He slipped past Samuel and quickened his pace until he was almost running down the path. "Hurry, all of you!" he shouted over his shoulder.

"Whatever has happened?" Samuel called after him.

I filled him in on the details as we chased Holmes. "What was in that letter?" I asked.

"My notice. I found my office shut up, the locks changed and that note pinned to the door. It's signed by the squire but I know who is really behind it. Mr Jack has been doing his best to be rid of me for weeks."

Molly threw her arms around him. "Oh, Sam. That wicked, _wicked_ boy!"

We had stopped, and Holmes, realising that we were no longer behind him, came trotting back up the path, impatience writ clear upon his face. "Have you seen Sir George today?" he asked.

Samuel shook his head. "Not since last week, as it happens, and then he didn't speak to me. It's Mr Jack who has been dealing with the estate business, and a great mess he's been making of it, too."

"I thought as much. You need not worry, Mr Foster. Mr John Prior has no more authority to be giving orders at the hall than does Watson here. Blood may be thicker than water, but in the landed classes birth comes before both."

I frowned, not sure what he was driving at. "Mr Prior is the squire's godson, is he not?"

"A godson with expectations, it would seem," said Holmes. He turned and continued on his way, leaving the rest of us to follow, Sergeant Taplow and one of his constables bringing up the rear.

"Was anything known of Prior before he arrived at the hall?" I asked Molly and Samuel.

My cousin shook her head. "We were not even aware that Sir George had any godchildren. As far as I know, he has no relatives living except Miss Charlotte, and therefore is the last of the Melvilles. He does not encourage friends, and the hall was a quiet place when I lived there – we never had house parties, or even gatherings for the shooting season."

"That sounds most unusual for a man in his position. Does he not even exchange visits with his neighbours?"

"He is a reticent man, John, and solitary," said Samuel, "He is quite happy with his own company."

"I suppose that is why he has never married. To whom would the estate pass if anything happened to Miss Melville?"

They looked at each other. "The estate is not entailed," Samuel said, "That is why Sir George was able to name Miss Charlotte directly as his heir, rather than any sons she might have. But as to where else it might go…I do not know of anyone who could inherit."

"If Miss Melville will inherit everything, I wonder at her father's haste for her to marry," I remarked. "Surely there was no hurry?"

"There are more reasons for marriage than simply dynastic concerns, or even love, Watson," said Holmes, having naturally overheard the conversation despite being several paces ahead of us. "Protection is provided by marriage, and it is quite possible that Sir George believes his daughter to be in need of the protection a husband can give her."

"Protection from what? Or whom?"

"From Mr John Prior, of course. Who else?"

* * *

Melville Hall, when we reached it, was eerily quiet.

From the path it seemed almost to be uninhabited, its magnificent windows presenting a blank face to the world. I glanced up at the attic gables, but, as it had done the previous morning, the sun reflected with blinding intensity from the glass, hiding anyone who might be standing there with its fiery glare. From somewhere within I heard a dog barking, and my hand went instinctively to my pocket, only to find it empty. I had left my revolver back at Molly's house, it naturally not being the done thing to take a firearm to church.

Holmes reached the front door first, and tried the great iron handle. It refused to budge. "Have you a key?" he asked Samuel.

"I don't have that privilege," Foster replied. "The front door is rarely used these days."

"A side door, then? We could possibly break it down, but I would prefer to avoid alerting Mr Prior to our presence if at all possible."

"The kitchen door. It's always unlocked during the day," said Molly before her husband could answer.

"Excellent! Lead on, Mrs Foster!" Holmes declared.

This she did, taking us round the side of the house and through a wrought iron gate into the walled kitchen garden. Here, amongst the vegetables and the glasshouses, tools stood in neat rows against a low shed, as though awaiting an invisible workforce. To my surprise, there was no sign of anyone, not even a single gardener tending his crops.

"Where are the staff?" I wondered.

"There's a May fair over at Tatworth," said Molly, looking around her with a frown. "The squire sometimes gives permission for the household to go, though never all on the same day."

"This is starting to look sinister, and no mistake," said Sergeant Taplow, mopping his forehead with a huge red handkerchief. "Servants given leave of absence for the day, missing young lady and no sign of her father…something's brewing."

"Almost like…" I faltered, not sure whether to voice the memory that had suddenly made itself known in my mind.

"What is it, Watson?" Holmes asked.

"Well, you remember that I was reading the article about the tragedy of Cumnor Place a few weeks ago?"

"I recall something of it, yes. Lord Robert Dudley, was it not?"

"Cumnor Place?" repeated Taplow, his face creased in confusion.

"The house in which Lord Robert's wife, Amy, was living - back in the sixteenth century, when Queen Elizabeth was first on the throne," said Molly, who evidently knew the story as well. The teacher in her came to the fore. "One Sunday she gave the servants leave to go to the fair - insisted that they all go, without exception, even though they objected. They eventually capitulated, and went, leaving her alone in the house."

"When they returned, they found her lying at the foot of the stairs, her neck broken," I added. "There was an investigation, and an official verdict of suicide, but the suspicion of murder haunted Dudley - and Queen Elizabeth - for years afterwards."

Holmes had become very still while we spoke. I glanced at him and met his eyes – the next moment he fairly leapt towards the kitchen door. He tried the handle but it did not move, locked just as the front door had been. A howl sounded from within the house, though to my ears it sounded more mournful than savage. Holmes rattled the handle. "We must get this door open!" he exclaimed.

Molly came to the rescue, discovering a key under a flowerpot by the shed. We crept through the door and down the cool stone passageway, past the kitchen with its gleaming copper pans and enormous fireplace, past the scullery and the pantry and half a dozen other service rooms, all as empty as the garden had been. At last we reached the staircase which led to the main body of the house and filed up it, Holmes in the lead and Taplow's constable watching out for the dog behind us.

"The attics, Mrs Foster," said Holmes once we were standing in the great hall. "Do you know at exactly which window Mr Edwards saw Miss Melville?"

"The third along, at the very top of the house. The box room!" Molly replied immediately.

"Then that is where we will gain our answers. Onwards and upwards!" Holmes cried, starting up the wide staircase towards the first floor landing, his long legs taking the steps two at a time.

The house had a curious, unloved feel, I thought as I forced my by now rather sore leg up the stairs. Despite its quantity of no doubt expensive glass, the interior was dark and cold. Portraits of Melvilles past, themselves covered with a layer of dirt, watched us as we made our way through the house, the spaces between them punctuated by the heads of forlorn-looking stags and foxes. I tried to ignore the ridiculous notion that their eyes followed me as I hurried as quickly as I could upwards after Holmes.

On the landing I caught sight of a splendid full-length portrait, better cared-for than the others, of a young woman in fancy costume, a large broad-brimmed hat trimmed with ostrich feathers tilted coquettishly to one side of her head. The colour was brilliant, though dimmed by age, the brushwork applied with exceptional delicacy. Holmes saw my attention and smiled slightly.

"No doubt that is the sub-standard Gainsborough we were told about," he murmured. "It would seem that Mr Prior's appreciation of art leaves something to be desired."

"Mr Holmes! John!" called Molly from the floor above us, having neatly slipped past Holmes and taken the lead. "Up here!"

I did not relish climbing yet more stairs, but I pushed myself onwards, only a few steps behind Holmes, trying to control my rather laboured breathing. I was beginning to come to the conclusion that I was getting to old for this sort of thing, but, I reflected, I was in better condition than Sergeant Taplow, who came after us, wheezing like a grampus.

"I hope…that dog…isn't up here…" he gasped.

As did I. There had been no sign of the mastiff since we entered the house, but I knew from the sounds I had heard that it must be there somewhere. I was mentally bemoaning the absence of my revolver when I felt something heavy and metallic pressed into my hand. Looking down, to my amazement and gratitude I saw that Holmes had brought my faithful old Webley with him. He gave me a quick smile before starting up yet _another_ staircase, this one smaller and less sturdy than the others. Every step creaked as we ascended, and I held my gun at the ready, seeing Holmes take a tighter grip on his stick. It might look innocuous, but I knew that there was a blade concealed within the hollow shaft, and that my friend was an expert swordsman. If Mr John Prior were to make trouble, we would be ready for him.

We reached the attics, small rooms leading from a low-ceilinged passageway. The roof sloped above our heads, and Samuel and Holmes were forced to stoop in the confined space. Molly knocked upon the third door along – we all waited, but there was silence from behind the wood. She glanced at Holmes in an unspoken question, and he nodded. She knocked once again.

"Miss Charlotte? Miss Charlotte, it's Molly. Are you all right?"

There was a pause, and then a strained young woman's voice said, "Molly? Is that really you?"

My cousin appeared ready to cry with relief. "Yes! Yes, it is! Oh, thank God!"

Holmes tested his weight against the door. "Watson, Mr Foster – if I might have your assistance?"

The three of us put our shoulders to the panelling while Molly called to Miss Melville to move out of the way.

"Sergeant, keep a look out for that dog!" I told the hovering policeman. He jumped and barked the order to his constable, who was standing below us on the staircase.

Holmes looked over his shoulder at me. "Ready, gentlemen? On the count of three: one…two…_three_!"

We brought all of our combined weight to bear upon the door. It took three concerted attempts before there was a loud creak and then an even louder crack, and I quite suddenly found myself pitching forwards. Someone caught my arm, preventing me from falling into an undignified heap on the floor, pulling me upright. Before I could gather my wits enough to see what was happening around me, a small figure flew past into Molly's outstretched arms.

"Molly!" she cried, clinging to my cousin, "Oh, Molly, dearest! I thought I might never see you again!"

"It's all right, it's all right, my angel, you're safe now," Molly told her, stroking the girl's long fair hair. "I won't let anyone hurt you, I promise."

Holmes paced about the tiny room. There was little to examine. The chamber was bare but for a truckle bed and some packing cases, a few female effects scattered about. It had the look of what it was: a prison cell.

"Miss Melville, where is Mr John Prior?" Holmes asked.

The poor girl had her head on Molly's shoulder, tears of relief spilling from her large blue eyes. Despite them, I could see a fire there when she looked up at us, a determination. "He has gone to Banbury," she said, "for a special license. He plans to marry me this evening."

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

**I know I'm sounding horribly repetitive at the start of each chapter, but I really do appreciate your reviews. It's great to know you're enjoying the ride - thank you once again! :)**

**Three chapters to go...**

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

* * *

**JACK IN THE GREEN**

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

_Bluebells they are starting to ring-o_

_And true love it is the thing-o_

_Love on any other day_

_Is never quite the same as on the first of May_

_- Dave Webber, performed by Magpie Lane_

"Marry? Good God!" I exclaimed.

"I take it that such a union is not congenial to you," said Holmes, going to the window and looking out.

"I would never marry him! I would not marry him if he were the last man alive!" Miss Melville cried. "He only wishes to marry me so that he will have this house and Papa's money; that is why he is doing it."

"He'll never get a license on a Sunday," said Samuel, "Surely he knows that?"

"I do not believe that Mr Prior has been in England long enough to be aware of such things. He will, however, soon discover his error and will no doubt be back before long," Holmes responded, "with or without a corrupt clergyman in tow. I suggest that we descend to a part of the house that will be more easily defended, should the need arise."

Miss Melville looked only too relieved to be leaving her prison. I wondered how she had borne it for the several days she must have been there – the tiny chamber was warm and stuffy, with nothing approaching the comforts she must be used to. She was pale and unsteady, and having seen no trace of food in the room I guessed that Prior had been rationing her meals in an attempt to force her to agree to their marriage. On the stairs she stumbled, and Samuel gallantly swept her up into his arms, carrying her the rest of the way.

Sergeant Taplow followed us down, wondering aloud what on earth was happening in the village. "I've never heard anything like it in all my life!" he declared.

"Perhaps you should read John's stories, Mr Taplow," said Molly, bustling about with cushions and rugs as we reached what must be a back parlour. The room was comfortable and cluttered, and had the air of regular use, unlike the rest of the house. "Such things happen more often that you might think! Poor Miss Smith in the case of _The Solitary Cyclist_, for example - "

Miss Melville overheard this part of the conversation as Samuel set her down on a chaise longue. "_The Solitary Cyclist_?" she repeated, staring first at myself and then at Holmes. A small hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, my goodness! Then you must be - "

"Here to aid you," said Holmes with a small bow.

The girl gazed at him, as if trying to reconcile his true features with those which had been given to him by Mr Paget, and in a flash she had jumped up from her couch and thrown her arms around him. "Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes! I thought I was lost, that there was no one who could aid me, no one at all!"

Holmes started, and then stiffened, unused to young ladies hurling themselves at him. He did his best to disentangle himself from her embrace without either offending or harming her. "It is Mrs Foster you should be thanking," he said, finally managing to extricate his person from her arms. I smiled as I watched him brush down the sleeves of his rumpled jacket and smooth his hair. "It was she who summoned me to investigate. You have formidable watchdog in her, Miss Melville."

The young lady glanced at Molly, who smiled and nodded. "But Doctor Watson persuaded Mr Holmes to come in the first place, didn't you, John?" she said.

Before I could answer, there was a pair of slender arms about my neck and I was hugged fiercely by Miss Melville. "Thank you, Doctor Watson! You have saved my life!"

"Surely not," I said, and then found myself catching her as the days of deprivation caught up and she crumpled. Molly helped her back to the couch, and I examined her while Holmes spoke.

"It is clear to me that Mr John Prior has ruled this household like a tyrant ever since he arrived," he said. "Your father allowed him to do so because of the intimate relationship between them, a relationship Sir George would rather not have revealed to the outside world."

Miss Melville nodded. "He has been blackmailing Papa, says he has documents that will compromise him, cause a scandal. Papa gave in to him, rather than lose his honour – he is not a strong man, I am afraid. He allowed him to rule the house, dismiss half the servants, and take what money he liked from the rents."

"But he would not acquiesce to Prior's final demand for your hand?"

"No. Papa has wanted me to marry ever since I returned from France, but I resisted." She smiled. "I had fallen in love."

"With Mr Henry Edwards, whom you met on the continent and persuaded your father to appoint as the new schoolmaster," said Holmes. He leaned against the dresser, regarding us all. "Unfortunately, John Prior was also in France at the same time."

"Of course – the boots!" I said.

He threw me one of those swift smiles of his. "Precisely, Watson."

Samuel frowned, and Sergeant Taplow echoed, "Boots?"

"The man who attacked Henry Edwards was wearing distinctive French-made boots," I explained.

"Which no doubt you will find if you make an examination of Mr Prior's wardrobe," said Holmes.

The blood drained from Miss Melville's face, and she sat up on the couch. "Harry? Attacked? Oh, my – is he all right? He is not - "

"Shush, darling." Molly caught her flailing hands and held them tight. "He is being well cared for, don't worry."

"But - "

"There is every chance that he will make a full recovery," I said encouragingly.

"It was Jack, it must have been. He is so jealous of Harry," said Miss Melville. "He hates anyone he thinks will keep him from his 'birthright', as he calls it."

"This 'birthright' being the hall and the Melville fortune," said Holmes.

I was confused by this, recalling his earlier comment about blood, water and birth. "Why should he have any claim to the estate?"

He looked at me, surprised, as though I should have worked out the answer by now. "Because Mr John Prior is Sir George Melville's son," he said simply.

* * *

A stunned silence greeted this revelation.

Eventually, Samuel broke it. "His _son_?" he repeated incredulously.

Holmes nodded, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh, yes. A young man brought up with expectations his father believes he has no right to claim. Is that not so, Miss Melville?"

She nodded. "You are quite correct, Mr Holmes. When I returned from France he had been here for some weeks – I recognised him as a man to whom I was introduced at a party at my aunt's house. I could not like him, for he watched me continually. Whichever way I turned his eyes were upon me. I was horrified when I saw that Papa had allowed him to establish himself in the house, agreeing to his every demand. When I questioned Papa, he would not explain why, and we quarrelled terribly. We have never quarrelled before, over anything."

"We…" I hesitated, trying to decide how to put the comment tactfully. "We have been told of your father's…addiction."

She turned her great blue eyes upon me. "My father is not a drunkard, Doctor Watson, no matter what people may say. Jack has not discouraged the rumours in any way, as he wishes to make Papa suffer, but you must not believe it. I have never seen Papa take more than a single whisky after dinner."

Holmes looked thoughtful as he exhaled a plume of blue smoke from the cigarette he had just lit, but said nothing, content to watch and observe.

"Drinkers can become very adept at hiding their consumption," I said, speaking from long physician's experience.

"My father is a steady man," Miss Melville told me firmly. "He does not drink to excess. It is not in his nature."

"Where _is_ Sir George?" asked Sergeant Taplow, and I realised that the absence of the squire had only that moment occurred to me, as well.

"Papa!" It had apparently struck Miss Melville at the same time. "Oh, my goodness – what has he done? Papa! _Papa_!"

Holmes got to his feet. "Where is your father's study?"

"Across the hall – second door on the left," Molly supplied before Miss Melville could speak. She began to stand, but I told her to remain with the young lady. I followed Holmes out of the room, Samuel behind me. Sergeant Taplow declined to rise from the chair into which he had gratefully fallen upon entering the parlour. It did not take long to find the correct door – it stood between a large and dark landscape painting of some unspecified location and a rusting suit of Civil War armour, the lobsterpot helmet tarnished and the buff jerkin beneath running to holes.

Holmes knocked sharply on the door. "Sir George? Sir George, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I would like to speak with you, if I may."

There was no answer. He tried the handle, but the door would not open, so he crouched to look through the keyhole. "Locked, and the key removed," he reported, straightening. "I am growing tired of locked doors in this house. Watson, if you would be so kind - ?"

I knew exactly what he was asking, and motioned to Samuel to stand aside. Readying my revolver, I aimed it squarely at the lock.

Foster looked horrified. "No, John, you can't!" he cried. "Think of the damage - "

"There has been enough damage done to this household," Holmes told him, "One lock will make little difference. Quickly, Watson."

I pulled the trigger. It took two shots, but after the final bullet the door creaked open and Holmes, waving away the resulting cordite smoke, darted through the gap. The room beyond was even darker than the others I had entered, being at the back of the house and away from the morning sunlight. The heavy panelling and sturdy furniture was oppressively masculine, as were the hunting portraits that covered the walls. It was clear that no woman ever spent time in here. Holmes stood by a slumped, white-haired figure in an armchair – he stood aside to allow me to examine the man who could only be Sir George Melville, baronet.

He was semi-conscious, his eyes vague and glassy, unaware of his surroundings. I was pleased to find a strong, steady pulse, but observed none of the usual signs of the heavy drinker – there was no ruddy complexion, no broken veins about the face, and I could smell only the faintest trace of alcohol upon his breath. I could, however, smell something else that made me suspicious, and this led me to pick up the glass that stood on the table at his side. I sniffed the contents, and then did the same to the decanter on the desk.

Holmes had been watching me with sharp eyes. "Your diagnosis, Doctor?"

"This man has been drugged. There are distinct traces of opium in both the glass and the decanter," I replied. "It would appear that Sir George may have been fed a steady dose of the drug over a period of time, resulting in - "

" – an unconscious addiction," he finished for me. "Hence the scene in the Green Man – it was opium, not alcohol, which caused him to behave in an uncharacteristic manner."

"That is monstrous!" exclaimed Samuel, appalled at the sight of his employer in such a condition. Sir George moaned slightly and moved his head, looking about him. I put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and passed him a glass of water. The effects of the drug would take a little time to wear off, leaving him weak and shattered for a time before the craving for the next 'fix' set in. It would take some while to wean him from the dependency that had been created, as I knew only too well from my own experience with Holmes's addiction.

"This man Prior is extremely dangerous," Holmes said. "Can you do anything for Sir George, Watson?"

"Only offer reassurance," I said. "He will need constant attention from his own doctor. What now, Holmes?"

There was a moment of intense concentration, when Holmes stood stock still, one finger pressed to his lips like an exclamation mark, before he abruptly strode to the door. "Sergeant!" he shouted across the hall, and then bellowed even louder when the call provoked no reaction.

After a long moment, Taplow appeared from the parlour, puffing from the unaccustomed exertion. "Mr Holmes?"

"I want you and your constable to go down to the servants' quarters and keep a watch on the kitchen door. Have your guns at the ready – we do not know precisely what we may be facing, and the dog is still loose somewhere. Mr Foster – please take the ladies back to your home and wait for us there. It will be safer for them."

Miss Melville had followed the sergeant, and heard this suggestion. "No!" she cried. "I will not allow that man to force me out of my home! I will stay, and so will Molly."

"Quite right, my dear," Molly said approvingly.

Holmes looked momentarily exasperated in the face of two so obviously stubborn women. "It is for your own safety, Miss Melville," he told her. Though he did admire women with pluck, there was absolutely no sense in the young lady putting herself in danger. She had gone through enough already.

"Nevertheless, I shall stay, Mr Holmes. You may need me. And I wish to see Mr Prior brought to account more than anyone – he has done his best to destroy my family, and I will not let him finish what he has begun." Her eyes strayed into the room beyond us, and the barely alert figure of her father by the fireplace. For a moment I thought she might faint, but despite her days of deprivation is was clear that she was made of stern stuff. She swallowed hard, and set her jaw defiantly. "What do you wish us to do?"

* * *

There followed an almost interminable period of waiting.

Holmes stationed me behind one of the great oak pillars which supported the high ceiling of the great hall, my revolver at the ready. He was insistent that I should not move, and that I keep my gun trained upon the front door. Samuel was with the ladies in the study, and Sergeant Taplow and his man below in the kitchen passage. Holmes himself had slipped off to goodness knows where. I would have liked to remain with my patient, as Sir George was exhibiting disorientation and thirst as he came out of his opium-induced stupor, but my friend would not hear of it.

"The ladies can take care of Sir George, and Mr Foster can protect them. He is an unknown quantity, and I can rely upon my Watson," he said before he disappeared. I was flattered, as he did not often say such things, but after what must have been two hours crouching behind a pillar I began to wonder whether I could not be rather more use elsewhere. I very much doubted that our quarry would return to the house through the front door – his dismissing of the household for the day suggested that he wanted no more than the legally required witnesses to the ceremony he intended to perform.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to relieve my aching old wound. For the past two hours I had been turning over the information Holmes had revealed in my mind, trying to work out exactly when he realised that Prior was Sir George Melville's son. Eventually my train of thought became so hopelessly tangled that I was forced to abandon the attempt.

Standing like this in one spot was putting strain upon my leg, and I glanced around the hall for something upon which to sit for a few moments. My eye alighted upon a small, straight-backed chair arranged along the wall with several of its fellows. It was not far from my cover, and I looked about me for any movement before I slipped from behind the pillar and pulled the chair towards me. As I did, I distinctly heard a footstep on the stone floor.

"No sign of him, then?" I asked, automatically assuming it to belong to Holmes. My heart skipped a beat as a vaguely-familiar voice said coldly,

"He is here, Doctor Watson, and I suggest you remain very still. I am a crack shot, and could drop you where you stand from fifty paces, but I would rather not have your blood disfiguring my hall floor if I can help it."

I froze. "Mr Prior." How the devil had he got past Holmes and the policemen?

"The very same. Perhaps you would care to explain how I come to find you trespassing on my property a second time? I warned you yesterday, did I not?"

I began involuntarily to turn, but stopped when I realised that the growling I had heard earlier deep within the house was now in the room with me. There was a gruff bark, and claws scraped on the stone floor. Prior had not come alone.

"You have ten seconds, Doctor, or I release Khan. I know that he is very eager to make your acquaintance…"

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

**Penultimate chapter - will Watson face the wrath of Khan? (I hadn't even thought of that, Deanna! /giggles/)**

**Thanks once again for the reviews, and for sticking with me thus far!**

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

* * *

**JACK IN THE GREEN**

**CHAPTER NINE**

_I am a Bristol lad, though me fortune is bad_

_And I am most wonderful poor_

_And indeed I intend all me life for to mend_

_And to build a fine house on the moor, me brave boys_

_And to build a fine house on the moor_

_- The Sheep Stealer, performed by Magpie Lane_

"Then he will have to make my acquaintance first," said Holmes. I did not dare to turn with a gun trained upon my back and an angry dog behind me, but I could hear the cold steel in his voice. "Drop the weapon, Mr Prior."

Prior laughed. "You think I am afraid of you, Holmes? I am on my own land here, and you are both in my house without permission. The police will not be surprised if an intruder is found mauled by a guard dog."

There was a loud crash from somewhere within the house, followed by a string of oaths.

"Ah, that will be the police now, dealing with your confederate," Holmes remarked. "Do be sensible and surrender, Mr Prior. I should not like to see this venerable old building pockmarked by gunfire."

I heard a snarl which I immediately assumed to be the dog before I realised it had actually come from Prior. "I'll brook no interference! Who the hell do you think you are, coming here and destroying my plans? I've waited twenty years for this!" he cried, and there was a jangling sound which could only be the removal of the mastiff's lead. "Khan! Kill him!"

Now I did turn, my own fear suddenly vanishing when my friend was in danger. I took a grip on my revolver, levelling it on Prior's back at exactly the same moment as Holmes withdrew something from behind him and threw it – a large and rather smelly bundle hit the floor between him and the enraged mastiff. The dog stopped, cocked its head to one side in a quizzical fashion, and, after a pause which made my heart leap into my throat, pounced upon the object and proceeded to fasten its enormous jaws about it. As it tore away the wrapping I saw that the thing was in fact an enormous ham bone, which Holmes must have found in the kitchen.

"Miss Melville was kind enough to tell me that Khan is quite a docile dog, if one knows how to handle him," he said with a slight smile.

The mastiff may have been quite happy, but Mr John Prior was not. With a roar he launched himself towards my friend. I instantly tightened my finger upon the trigger of my gun, ready to disable him if necessary, but to my surprise his advance stopped shortly after it began, and he froze three feet from Holmes.

"It's all right, Watson," Holmes said, raising his voice so that he might be heard over the noisy chewing of Khan. "Take his gun, will you?"

I came forwards to see that Prior had been brought up short by the blade of Holmes's sword stick, which was held at its length with the point just touching the delicate skin of his throat. He stood stock still, both eyes fixed upon the blade and the remarkably steady hand which held it. I perceived barely a tremor, and, recalling how Holmes's fingers had shaken the previous night, I once again marvelled at his control.

It was the work of a moment to take the hunting rifle from Prior's slack grip, and I quickly removed and pocketed the cartridges. Holmes did not move an inch, his cold grey eyes boring into Prior's dark ones. The youth's bluster and bravado had left him – at my friend's mercy he actually had the decency to look scared.

"What are you going to do?" he asked after a long pause, during which the mastiff did not even look up from his meal.

"Ultimately, that will be up to a judge to decide. For now you will be taking a journey to the police station and this house will be free of your tyrannical rule," said Holmes. "Before you leave, however, there are a few questions to which I would like answers."

"You have no right to threaten me," said Prior, a hint of his arrogance surfacing as he realised we were not going to kill him. "You are not the police, Mr Holmes. I believe I could put the law onto _you_."

"If I have no right to threaten you, then you certainly had no right to threaten, imprison and terrorise Miss Charlotte Melville. Just as you had no right to blackmail and forcibly drug your own father. You are a despicable specimen of humanity, Mr Prior."

The young man's face twisted in a snarl. "That man is no father of mine! He abandoned me when I was no more than a babe in arms – he is worse than a stranger to me."

"Then why have you done all this?" I asked in amazement.

"For revenge, Watson, why else?" said Holmes. He jerked the blade slightly, and Prior flinched. "Into the study if you please, Mr Prior. There are others awaiting an explanation."

A clattering of footsteps on the kitchen stairs heralded the arrival of Sergeant Taplow, breathing heavily from such a burst of energy. "Ah, you have him, Mr Holmes!" he exclaimed in delight.

"As you can see, Sergeant. What of his friend?"

"Constable Cartwright is pursuing him at this very moment. He won't get far."

"Excellent. Perhaps if you would be so kind…?"

Holmes did not remove the blade until Taplow had secured Prior. I kept my revolver trained on the young man nonetheless, ushering him into the study, the door having been unlocked by a cautious Molly who had heard the confrontation outside. At the sight of Prior she instinctively crossed to Miss Melville's side, taking her hand. The young lady smiled when she saw the derbies on Prior's wrists, her head tilted defiantly. Beside her in his armchair Sir George appeared much more alert, on his way to recovery from this particular episode. I handed my gun to Taplow and went to assure myself of the baronet's condition.

"Sit down there," Holmes commanded, gesturing towards a chair by the desk. He himself took the other armchair, which faced the seat into which he had instructed Prior, while Taplow took up a stance by the door. "How is Sir George, Watson?"

"He will be well enough, given time," I replied, pouring the squire a glass of water and shooting Prior a glare.

"Now…" Holmes turned to the prisoner, who sat straight in his chair, staring at the wall, refusing to be cowed by his discovery and capture. I could see little resemblance between him and his father, which presumably had allowed him to keep their true relationship a secret from the household. Perhaps those who saw them together frequently might discern something familiar, but they would probably not realise what it was. "Will you tell this company your story, or shall I do it for you?"

Prior ignored him, his eyes fixed upon a spot over Holmes's head.

"Very well," said my friend, "There are some points upon which I am not clear, and will need your assistance to fill in the details, but until then I am quite happy to do the talking. When I was in France a few years ago there came to my attention a young man who was making the rounds of society ladies, acting as a…companion to them and receiving handsome payment for his troubles. I made a discreet investigation at the request of a friend, but could find nothing of a criminal nature to pin upon this man, and so the matter faded from my attention when events of a more important nature occurred." Holmes glanced at me, and I knew that he was referring to the Adair murder, the momentous event which had heralded his return from the dead three years before. "However, there was something interesting about this fellow, not least his taste in expensive boots. He had become know as Jacques dans le Verte – Jack in the Green, presumably after the habitual colour of his coats, and from a name probably mentioned to him in childhood by his mother."

There it was again: Jack in the Green. The name resounded throughout this case. I looked at Prior, and there was a sneer touching his lips.

"A fascinating story, Mr Holmes, but I fail to see what it has to do with me."

"Really?" said Holmes. "Well, perhaps I should add that _you_ were in France until six months ago, Mr Prior. Miss Melville met you there at a party after you no doubt inveigled an invitation through one of your 'friends'. You kept a watch on her all night, and made sure that you discovered all that you could about her. At first you considered her as a potential victim, someone from whom you could trick an income, but when you heard her name your interest was piqued that little further, for it was your own. You full name, I believe, is John Prior Melville, is it not?"

"You have no official standing. I do not have to explain myself to you."

"Then perhaps you will explain yourself to me," said Taplow, fingering my revolver. "Or do I have to bring in an inspector from Banbury to hear your tales instead?"

"And precisely with what do you intend to charge me?" Prior demanded.

"The imprisonment of Miss Melville; and the murderous attack upon Henry Edwards. Is that not enough for you?"

"You cannot prove I attacked Edwards."

"On the contrary, I believe we can," said Holmes. "Once Mr Edwards recovers enough to tell us exactly what happened last night, there will be no question of lacking proof. There is certainly enough circumstantial evidence."

Prior started, sitting up even straighter in his chair. His face paled. "Edwards is alive?"

"Yes, he is, no thanks to you!" hissed Miss Melville, starting up from her chair. "What did we ever do to you? Harry would never harm anyone!"

"It is all _his_ fault!" Prior exclaimed, nodding towards Sir George. He too stood, but Taplow's hand on his shoulder pressed him back into his seat. "It is because of him that I have no name, no standing, nothing to live on but my wits! I have been in hell since I was five years old and all because he denied me the life that should have been mine!"

The sergeant looked at Melville. "Is this true, sir?"

For along moment all eyes were turned to the baronet. Sir George was a tired, shrunken man who might once have been handsome but was now white-haired and prematurely aged by worry and care. He closed his eyes under the scrutiny and nodded; his shame apparent to all.

"I had a long conversation with the Reverend Culver yesterday," Holmes said, taking up the threads of his narrative once more. "He has been vicar of St Peter's for nearly forty years and is privy to some fascinating stories. I asked him a little about the Melville family and intimated that I may have some relations in common with them. He agreed to show me some of the parish registers. Of course, I had eventually to reveal the real reason for my enquiries, but when I explained who I was and for whom I was acting, he agreed to help me. In 1870, there was a marriage in St Peter's between George Stanley Melville, and Alice Edith Prior. According to Reverend Culver, it was a small, private ceremony, attended by only the required witnesses. After the wedding, the couple went their separate ways, he to Oxford to begin his university education, she back to her parents' house in Banbury. They had chosen to keep the marriage a secret from his parents, knowing that Sir Charles Melville – Sir George's father – would not approve, as the young lady's family, though respectable, came from trade. They agreed that once George Melville had made his way through Oxford, and was of age, they would make their union public."

"Why did they not decide to wait until the marriage would be legal?" I wondered.

It was Sir George who answered. "Because they were in love, sir, that is why. When one is young and in love reason seldom enters into the equation. I wanted to marry no one but my Alice."

"Unfortunately, however, your father discovered your secret before you could present him with a fait accompli," said Holmes.

"Yes. He was angrier than I had ever seen him. You see, when I married Alice I was the younger son and of little importance – I had assumed that I would be allowed to live my life as I chose. Sadly, during my time at university my elder brother grew sick from a debilitating disease and died, leaving me the heir to the fortune. My life was no longer my own. I was ordered to put Alice aside, but in a rare act of rebellion I refused to do so. She was my wife, and I had the documents to prove it. However, my father threatened to cut me off without a penny should I not do as he ordered, and, having few talents by which to find my way in the world, I reluctantly did as I was told. Alice was devastated. My father had the marriage annulled on the grounds that I had not been of age when I made the vows, and Alice was given a sum of money and sent to live abroad. I never saw her again, though I remained true to her, and never married."

"I take it that you were unaware when all this occurred that your wife was with child."

The unhappy baronet nodded. "I knew nothing of him until John turned up on my doorstep last year. At first I was overcome with joy at the news that I had a son of my own, that he was the result of Alice and my union, but soon things turned darker as he revealed his true nature. He had documents that not only proved his birth but my marriage to his mother, documents I thought long destroyed. He threatened to expose what he called my abandonment of him and my family's cruel treatment of his mother if I did not do as he said. Bitterness consumes him."

"I only demanded that which was my right," declared Prior.

"Demands and blackmail are never a legitimate manner in which to gain anything," Holmes told him coldly. "I do not condone the actions of the Melville family towards your mother, but they do not excuse your abominable conduct. Only a spoilt child would imagine that they might."

The young man laughed, but there was no humour in it. "Would you like to know more of my history, Mr Holmes, since you seem to have uncovered plenty of it already? My mother died when I was five years old, and left me no more than a hundred francs and a letter which was not to be opened until my twenty-first birthday. I was placed in the care of an elderly couple who had been friends of hers, but as I grew I chafed at the restrictions they placed upon me and eventually I ran away to Paris. I soon found that a pretty face and a smooth tongue can open doors, even without money. It was not the life I would have chosen, but I had no alternative but to take that which was offered to me."

"And you found that trusting ladies were easy to manipulate," I said.

"Do not judge me, Doctor," Prior spat, rounding upon me. I took an involuntary step backwards at the venom in his gaze. "Until you have been down in the hell that I have seen you know nothing of the world. For years I simply existed. I forgot all about my mother's letter until long after my majority arrived – I discovered it in a tin box in my lodgings and sat down to read. In it she detailed her marriage and subsequent abandonment by my father, and how such treatment had destroyed her, robbing her of any will to live. God help her, she remained in love with that man until the day she died. I resolved then that I would do whatever it took to gain what was rightfully mine and avenge the woman who had been treated so appallingly though she never wronged anyone in the world." For a moment his fierce expression appeared to crumple, his eyes glistening, before the savage mask slipped back into place. "I set myself to tracking down my father. It was quite by chance that I met Charlotte at that party. After so recently discovering my heritage, how could I not take an interest in her? Even though she had usurped my place in the family, she was still my cousin and I had had no family all my life. But she repulsed me, preferring the company of that weakling schoolteacher."

"Harry is twice the man you will ever be!" Miss Melville cried, rising once again, as though to fly at him. Molly held her back.

"So you came to England and found your way to Hope Barton. I wired Inspector Undershaw of the Banbury constabulary, who confirmed that you had been asking questions about the Melvilles both there and in Oxford. He also informed me that the Paris police had been making enquiries in their turn about _you_," said Holmes, fixing Prior with a steady gaze. "Unfortunately I did not receive his reply until this morning, when Mr Cranleigh of the Green Man was good enough to accept the cable for me. If I had made the necessary connections sooner, it might have saved Mr Edwards the beating he received last night at your hands, a beating you gave because he had discovered your treatment of Miss Melville and tried to stop it."

Sergeant Taplow glanced at the young woman, who sat ramrod straight in her chair, her eyes never moving from Prior's face. "Is this true, Miss?"

She nodded. "I had no idea what Jack's plans were until I felt ill on Tuesday morning and went upstairs to lie down. He must have drugged me, as when I awoke I was in the box room, and the door was locked. Terrified and unaware of what was happening, I went to the window and beat my hands upon it, screaming for help. It was then that I saw Harry cycling up the drive from the house – I had been due to meet him that afternoon, and he must have come looking for me when I did not arrive. He heard my cries and glanced back – I saw him ride back the way he had come but then lost sight of him. Barely ten minutes later Jack burst into the room in a rage, calling me any number of obscene names and demanding that I agree to marry him. He had seen that marrying me was the only way he could gain control of the estate and Papa's money. I refused, repeatedly, and he threw me into a corner, leaving with a vow to break me in any way he could."

"Presumably that was when he told you the truth about his relationship with your adopted father," said Holmes.

"Yes. I did not believe him at first, but when he showed me the documents I could not deny it. But I still refused to marry him. How could I do such a thing? He kept me locked up in the box room with barely any food or water. I would have gone mad wondering what was happening in the house, and whether he had harmed Papa, had not Betty, one of the maids, found a way to slip me notes through a loose floorboard under the door. She risked her job to do so, but she managed to smuggle a letter from me to Harry."

"A letter Mr Prior intercepted. He met Mr Edwards when he came to the house in answer to your plea, attacked him and left him for dead in his own school room, removing – so he thought – the only witness to his imprisonment of you and his rival for your affections in one swoop."

"But what of you, Sir George?" asked Taplow. "Surely you noticed that your only daughter was missing?"

The baronet shook his head miserably. "I have not been well, and in truth I have spent the past few days in a haze. I barely know whether I wake or sleep, and when I am awake things have seemed strange, disordered. As this continued I began to believe that there was something horribly wrong with me, but I could not summon the energy to do anything about it. It was as if my body belonged to someone else. Only now am I aware enough to even consider what is happening around me." He looked at me imploringly. "What is this terrible complaint?"

"You have been dosed regularly with opium, Sir George," I said. "It was a calculated amount designed to keep you in a state of reduced awareness. The substance has been added to your whisky, and, I suspect, your food, over a period of days."

"Good God!" Sir George stared at his son. "Is there no level to which you would not stoop, sir? Is not destroying my happiness and my home enough for you?"

"It will never be enough as long as you are alive and in charge of my birthright," Prior snapped.

"All right, that's enough," said Taplow, laying a heavy hand on the young man's shoulder. "I think I've heard all I need to for the present. To think that if it hadn't been for Mr Holmes here you might have got away with your evil schemes! Mr John Prior, I charge you with the wilful imprisonment of Miss Charlotte Melville, and also with the near-fatal beating of Mr Henry Edwards. You do not have to say anything - "

Before he could finish speaking, Prior leapt up from his chair and hurled himself at Holmes, his bound hands reaching for my friend's throat. For a moment we were all frozen with shock before first and I and them Samuel threw ourselves at the wild young man as Holmes tried to break his hold, the chair almost overbalancing under our combined weight. Behind me I heard Taplow yelling something, Miss Melville crying out in alarm. I wrestled with Prior, who seemed to have strength of the very devil himself, at last managing with the help of Sam and the sergeant to drag him away. They held him securely while I turned my attention to Holmes, who was coughing and massaging his throat. I anxiously checked him over.

"It's all right, Watson, nothing wrong that a brandy won't cure," he said hoarsely as I pulled his hand away to reveal what would no doubt be some rather unsightly bruising come the morning.

"I think you had better take him away, sergeant," I told Taplow, who nodded.

"Come along, then. We've a nice warm cell waiting for you back at the station," he said to Prior.

The young man ignored him, his gaze fixed upon Holmes. "You have ruined me," he spat. "What business was it of yours to stick your nose into my affairs?"

"The business that I have made my own – that of seeing justice done," my friend replied. "Just because you have a grievance against the world, it does not entitle you to break the law."

**To be concluded…**


	10. Chapter 10

**Well, here we are at the last chapter. I found it a little difficult to wrap everything up to my satisfaction without making it too twee - I hope I've succeeded in that respect!**

**Thanks again to those who have stuck with me all the way through and who have left such lovely reviews. Enjoy the conclusion. :)**

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

* * *

**JACK IN THE GREEN**

**CHAPTER TEN**

_The sun is half up and betokens the hour_

_When the children arrive with their garlands of flowers_

_So now let the music and the dancing begin_

_And toast the good heart of young Jack in the Green_

_- Martin Graebe, performed by Magpie Lane_

It was a subdued party which returned to Samuel and Molly's home that afternoon.

My mind was still grappling to make sense of the many revelations I had heard in the past few hours. Prior was still ranting at Sir George as he was taken away by the police; his companion, a young clergyman who had run instinctively when Taplow and Cartwright appeared from the house, was found to have been bribed by Prior to conduct the ceremony. It took some time for the sergeant to take statements from everyone, and by the time we departed we were all tired and disinclined towards conversation.

Molly insisted on Sir George and Miss Melville coming with us, as they both needed attention and with the staff at the hall dismissed for the day it would be better for all concerned that they were not left alone. The baronet was a broken man, and his daughter plainly did not know quite what to make of him after seeing the bile that had been directed towards him by John Prior. She was solicitous of his health, but there was a slight reserve in her manner that I had not noticed before. Holmes spoke to no one, repulsing any attempt by Sir George thank him for his actions.

"No one comes out of this affair with any glory, Watson," he told me before retiring for the night. "There is a lesson to be learned from what has happened here, that is it far better to tell the truth. A scandal may be an appalling prospect, but trying to keep a secret will in the end produce greater strife. How many lives have been ruined by the foolish actions of those young people nearly thirty years ago?"

I did not disagree, though I remarked that youth is often foolish, and no one is able to see the far-reaching consequences of their actions. He merely snorted and closed his door.

By the following morning it became clear that the house was somewhat overcrowded, and I acquiesced with relief to Holmes's suggestion that we return to London on the afternoon train. Molly was disappointed, but agreed that, since the Melvilles were not eager to return to their home just yet, things would only be cramped for us all. She could also see as well as I that Holmes was itching to be away. Now that the case was concluded he wished to be back amongst the bustle of Baker Street, with the enticement of a return to the work that he loved.

"You will stay for the Maying, won't you?" Molly asked, and Miss Melville added her voice to the plea.

"Oh, you must, Mr Holmes! We must do something to thank you."

"I need no rewards, Miss Melville," Holmes said, but she would not hear of us leaving until after the procession. With a long-suffering sigh, he agreed that perhaps we could stay a little longer. I did speak to Miss Melville and suggest that perhaps she should be resting following her ordeal but she simply smiled at me and made it clear that after days of incarceration she wished to breathe as much fresh air as possible. She spent much of the morning with Henry Edwards, who was being cared for by Doctor Bateman and a local nurse at his own cottage.

Holmes and I strolled from the house towards the green just before twelve o'clock, having seen Samuel and the two women off a few minutes ahead. Sir George remained behind, unable to bear the thought of being amongst his tenants so soon after the upheaval at the hall which had seen many of them losing their jobs. I wondered whether he would ever be able to hold his head up amongst them again once the news was out.

"How did they manage to keep the marriage a secret the first time?" I wondered as we walked, taking the path that would lead us past the church and down the avenue of yew trees. "Surely in a community so small someone must have known."

"And so they did. But Sir George has been fortunate that in Reverend Culver he has a good friend and a man of discretion. Culver is of the belief that a confidence should be kept no matter what, and only revealed the circumstances to me once I had assured him that I meant Sir George no harm," Holmes said.

"And yet in a way you have done the man harm, Holmes. That which he wished to conceal will be made public."

"There is little that can be done about it now. The truth had to be revealed in order to extricate him from the predicament in which he found himself, a predicament to a certain extent of his own making. He could have refused to believe John Prior's claims and sent him away, weathered whatever scandal erupted, and carried on with his life, but he decided to hide once again, and look what came of it. It is now time for him to show some of the strength he claims to lack."

I sighed. "Such a tangled web. But what of this Jack in the Green business? How did you know that this Frenchman and John Prior were one and the same?"

"I vaguely recognised him when we spoke at the hall yesterday morning, but my memory has not been at its best of late and I was unable to place him until I saw those photographs of Sir George and his brother playing in the local cricket team. Prior looks far more like his uncle than his father, which explains why no one in the household guessed the truth. I also recognised his boots – Jacques dans le Verte was very much the dandy, Watson, and no matter how much he tried to be English he could not hide his liking for expensive footwear. I got a good look at them while he was haranguing us yesterday. Besides, there is also _that_." We had reached the church, and he lifted his stick to point to the Green Man above the door. The thing leered down at us.

"What has that repulsive creature to do with it?" I asked in surprise.

"There is something else that the Reverend Culver was good enough to tell me: some of the local young ladies regard Jack as some sort of protective spirit. This avenue is popular with courting couples, as they believe that Jack will watch over their union and make it fruitful." Holmes raised an eyebrow. "One of those young ladies was Alice Prior. She would visit Jack, so I am told, on a regular basis. It does not take a detective to deduce that she mentioned the sprite to her son when a child, and that the name lodged itself in his memory. Being unaware of the local customs, when he used the framework for the Jack in the Green costume to hide what he believed to be the body of Henry Edwards he did not realise that he was giving another clue to his identity."

I shook my head. "It is all quite incredible."

"Did I not say that there is more to be feared from the country than the town?"

"Repeatedly."

"I find myself vindicated once again. Ah – here is your cousin."

Molly and Miss Melville had come to meet us. Behind them came the strains of music, and the tinkling of the bells worn by Morris Men. I allowed them to lead me to the green, Holmes following us somewhat reluctantly. The dancers were there in full regalia, the clashing of their sticks drawing forth excited whoops from the crowd as they weaved to and fro to the tune of _The Flowers of Edinburgh_.

"Harry wishes me to thank you, Doctor Watson," Miss Melville said, clutching my arm as we walked. "He says that if it weren't for you he would be dead."

"I was fortunate to be in the right place at the right time," I told her. "How is Mr Edwards?"

"The doctor says it may be too early to say, but they think he will recover, in time. I have spoken with Papa, and he has agreed that we may be married, once I am of age. Harry may not be what he wished for in a son-in-law, but he is honest, and true, and he loves me."

"That is what matters. I am sure that your father can appreciate the sentiment."

"The village will need a new schoolteacher," observed Holmes, who had caught up with us as we stood at the edge of the green watching the dancers. There was a look of barely-disguised distaste on his face as he took in the spectacle of bells, streamers, flowers and clogs.

"I am going to step in," declared Molly. She smiled broadly when she saw our surprise. "Well, Sam decided that I need something other than my imagination to occupy me, and I think he's right. Just this time, mind," she added when her husband looked pleased with himself. "So there will be no more Mary Quinn novels for a while, I'm afraid."

"Oh, that is a shame," I said, and cast a mischievous glance towards my friend. "Whatever will Holmes read on the long winter evenings now?"

Holmes shot me a glare from beneath his panama and turned his attention to the chaotic scene before him. The entire village had turned out for the occasion, children laughing and running in and out of the adults' legs, the ribbons of the maypole and the May Queen's throne fluttering in the breeze. Flowers were everywhere – on the houses, the tavern, carried by the pretty young queen and her attendants, and by the gaggle of schoolchildren who surrounded the maypole itself. I saw the foliage-covered form of 'Jack', head and shoulders above everyone else.

"You will come back for a more relaxing weekend, won't you?" Molly asked me, tucking her arm through mine. "Later in the year?"

I smiled. "Of course. I will look forward to it."

"And you, Mr Holmes? I promise I will leave you free from any investigations."

"Please don't, my dear – a weekend without a mystery to solve would be utter misery for Holmes."

"Thank you, Watson," my friend said with a tight little smile. "I will be happy to visit again, Mrs Foster, should my work allow me the luxury of any free time in the near future."

I opened my mouth to remonstrate with him, but then I stopped and actually looked at him properly. His face was pale, as it always was, but the dark circles beneath his eyes which had become a permanent fixture of late seemed just a shade lighter, the worry lines which had marked his forehead smoothed out. His appearance spoke to me of a man who had at last had a good night's sleep, and as I moved my gaze to the hand which rested upon the head of his walking stick, I realised that it was almost steady. He noticed my scrutiny, of course, and the smile spread a little further. I knew then that there would be no stopping him from throwing himself back into his work the moment we returned to Baker Street.

"At any rate," he added, addressing Molly, "we will have to return for the trial."

"Oh, don't let's speak of that now," said Miss Melville quickly. I could understand her sentiments. She glanced over her shoulder – behind her the Morris Men were leaving the green, followed by their troupe of attendants. Robin Hood raised his bow and fired an arrow decked with flowers into the crowd. A space was cleared about the maypole, the children leaving the area to make way for the young people. A wicked gleam came into Miss Melville's eye. "Would you like to dance, Mr Holmes?"

I have rarely seen Holmes speechless, but he was at that moment. I covered my mouth with my hand to hide my smile, but Molly laughed out loud. Holmes flushed, glaring at the pair of us.

"I am afraid I have no aptitude for dancing, Miss Melville. Thank you all the same," he said smoothly when he had found his voice.

"Nonsense! It's the easiest thing in the world. Come along, I'll show you." She reached to take his hand, a girl with evidently more courage than most, but he slipped away from her, looking around him for an escape.

It came in the form of Samuel. "I think there's someone in the Green Man who would like a word, Mr Holmes," he said with a wink. Miss Melville pouted, but Holmes was relieved.

"Thank you, Mr Foster. Lead on, please." He gestured to Samuel to lead the way, touched his hat to the ladies, and the two of them vanished into the crowd.

Molly shook her head, watching her husband go. "Typical. No sense of occasion. He wouldn't dance with me when we were younger either."

I will admit that I was tempted to join them in the tavern. Miss Melville gave me a speculative glance, but thankfully before she could try to coerce me to dancing with her a lad of a similar age to herself approached and doffed his cap, shyly asking her to join him at the maypole. She looked flattered, considered the offer, but realised that Molly was looking at her disapprovingly and ultimately shook her head.

"Not until Harry can dance with me," she said, and Molly nodded, pleased with her answer.

The festivities continued for some time, and I did not manage to drag myself away until barely an hour before our train was due to leave. Samuel went off to collect the dog cart to take us to the station and I made it my mission to find Holmes. It did not take me long – he was sitting in a quiet corner of the Green Man, apparently relishing the solitude and finishing a pint of the local ale.

"Ready to go, Holmes?" I asked.

"Ah, Watson. Yes, I believe so." He got to his feet and put on his hat. "Have you enjoyed your weekend?"

Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. "Apart from unravelling the convoluted history of the Melville family and being threatened with a savaging from a very large dog, yes, enormously," I replied.

Holmes's mouth twitched; and he clapped a companionable hand on my shoulder. "I think we both have had far too much country air. The atmosphere of Baker Street, some of Mrs Hudson's most unimaginative cooking and the anticipation of what employment either the post or Lestrade might bring us will do us both wonders, I am sure."

"Holmes…" I said in a warning tone, but he held up a hand. A steady hand.

"Come along. Mr Foster will be outside." He shepherded me out of the tavern and into the sunshine, but before he climbed into the waiting cart he stopped and turned back. "One more thing, Watson. Promise me something."

I looked at him, surprised. "If I can, Holmes. What is it?"

His mouth twitched again, into a proper smile, as he swung himself up into the back of the dog cart. He did not speak until I was beside him, and we were leaving Hope Barton behind. Then he cried,

"Promise me that you will not force me to leave London for anything other than the most urgent of cases for as long as is humanly possible!"

I laughed and shook my head. "I promise, Holmes."

And so I did.

* * *

We returned to Oxfordshire for the trial of John Prior some weeks later. He was sentenced to ten years' imprisonment, and still adamantly maintained his right to the Melville inheritance as he was being taken below to the cells.

Miss Melville married Mr Henry Edwards in a small ceremony at St Peter's church in Hope Barton in August of that year. The groom was still recovering from his injuries, but he made good progress and his new young wife was a most devoted nurse. They live with the young lady's ailing father at Melville Hall, and will I am sure make a worthy addition to Oxfordshire society.

Sir George Melville did not recover from the shame of having his early foolishness aired in the police courts and the newspapers. He does not leave his home now, but he is visited regularly by Molly and Samuel, who, with his daughter and son-in-law, do their best to make his reclusive life comfortable for him.

Molly does not regret her return to teaching, though she does still write when she has the time. A new Mary Quinn novel was published that November, a copy of which she sent to me, and which I put to one side, knowing it would make a marvellous and amusing Christmas present for Holmes. To my surprise he declared it to be just the thing he needed, and thanked me profusely for such a well-chosen gift. I began to wonder if he had run mad until I discovered a few weeks later that the book happened to be just the right size to prop up the wobbly leg of his dressing table. I am grateful he has never seen fit to put any of my stories to such use, but look forward to being there when Molly asks his opinion of the work…

FIN.


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